


live or die, but don't poison everything

by EvaLilith, Shanedan (shanedan)



Series: Hanzo's Much Deserved Recovery and Redemption Arc, [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: And A Criminal, And He Embraces Both Sides, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination, Canon-Typical Violence, Corruption, Explicit Language, Frank Discussion Of Mental Health, Frank Discussion of Drugs, Friendship, Genji Is A Badass, Half-OC OC's, Inspired by Music, M/M, McBigBangZo, Murder, Omnic Rights Movement, Realistic Romance between Adults, Sexual Tension, Sharing, So is medication, The Importance Of Friends During Recovery and Discovering Your Own limits, Therapy is an important part of recovery, Violence, and they make each other laugh, continuation of a previous story but can stand alone, fastburn, frank discussion of suicide, hanzo is a thirsty ass who is beginning to see McCree as someone who really understand, mccree is a big crushing doofus that respects hanzos emotional boundaries and complelxity, so that is all that is important, they dont fuck tho, whats the opposite of slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-07 14:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14082738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvaLilith/pseuds/EvaLilith, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanedan/pseuds/Shanedan
Summary: The winter of 2076 is a hard time for King's Row. Relations between omnics and humans are worsening, and peaceful protests often go wrong. In the middle of this conflict is one Hanzo Shimada, 'undercover' Overwatch agent, taking refuge in the lower part of London while he pursues professional help with a therapist.He is suddenly thrust back into action when Winston sends a team containing one Agent Jesse McCree to his tiny little apartment with the news that the latest protest will end in violence. Hanzo, lead of the mission, is charged with stopping it. It was a simple mission with set perimeters. Easy.He fails to complete his objective. Everything after that? Less easy.(Jesse McCree only complicates it more).





	1. Therapy, Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone! this is my piece for the mcbigbangzo 17-18, which is ??? chapters long but fully written so far and focuses on hanzo discovering friendship and love while dealing with his own trauma in a HEALTHY way. im going to keep this short, ive been working on this on and off for a little over a year now and im real excited to share it. be sure to check out all my contributers work elsewhere in the collection and the art included!! my partner was a real gem and they really captured the mood of the story with their cover art. follow them on tumblr and insta @syzgy-y-y !! and thanks to my beta reader evalilith who has really been with me since the Beginning... i named a fucking pub after their nickname just because i love em so much. thanks!
> 
> ;; also i KNOW i accidentally have hana in there, IM SORRY, it was first draft and i dont want to delete and readd the chapter

London was nice enough. 

The rain was the most notable of his residence there. It rained like it was attempting to wash away the crime and Queen with inches upon inches of soggy, sad rain by the day. When Hanzo left his apartment, he often found himself splashing around in a gutter. Murky water wet his jeans and ankles. He hardly could leave the house without an umbrella shoved somewhere upon his person; but the rain could not deter him. After all, life goes on. Rain or shine, snow or sleet, time marches on, the world still turns, and still crime lurks in the shadows of London.

But Hanzo does not do anything about the crime. 

When Oxton had suggested that Hanzo take half-permanent leave of Overwatch to serve as a ‘sleeper’ agent of sorts in London, Hanzo had thought that it would be more like the undercover jobs he took on as a young assassin in the Shimada-Gumi. His work would be silent, deadly, and then Hanzo would blend back into the rush of everyday life with the blood hidden up his sleeve. He was prepared for complicated solo-night ops, intel laundering, getting deep into the King’s Row underground and espionage work like he hadn’t seen since he was twenty-three.

He did no such thing. 

In fact, he went to therapy. 

Three times a week.

And his therapist was very earnest and understanding, which made it exceptionally hard for Hanzo to hate the experience. It was almost cathartic to talk to a stranger who had not seen the aftereffects of Hanzo’s actions. Dr. Phao was a quiet, naturally inquisitive woman who asked questions that made Hanzo actually think about what he said. If pressured, Hanzo would even say he liked her. Whenever he walked into her office, she always had tea waiting for him in a genuine porcelain cup. She curled her feet under herself when she listened and talked more with her hands than she did with her words. When Hanzo had first expressed disbelief in her ability to comprehend his actions, especially considering she was what Hanzo considered a civilian, she confided that she had been Overwatch agents’ therapist almost since the conception of the organization. When Hanzo vehemently denied being part of Overwatch (as it was still very illegal), Dr. Phao raised her eyebrows and nodded knowingly. “Of course,” she said dully. “You are just another soldier, aren’t you?”

It took fourteen sessions for Hanzo to finally tell the truth. Beforehand, they danced around the subject like it was venomous. Hanzo would allude to nightmares, be forthright about his drinking, even confess his suicide attempts in a moment of weakness-- but whenever Dr. Phao would ask why, shame would crowd so violently in Hanzo’s throat that he found himself out of words. How to explain to someone so---so sincere, so unknowing of the dark past that even Hanzo had nightmares about? He almost wanted to hide the fact. Pretend he wasn’t a weak fool who betrayed the only one he had ever trusted or perhaps even loved, and for the meager price of power. But that thought only made the ignominy crash over him like a tsunami on the low shores of Japan; who was he to deny the truth? His weakness? He was not the injured party. He had failed.

It was as simple as that. 

So he told her. 

Her told her in excruciating detail that he had not even vocalized to himself, explained how the blood turned Genji’s hair brown, how he came from the brawl trembling, how he woke up the next morning believing it to be a nightmare and going to greet his brother. How his brother’s last rattling words were so thick and watery, like mucus, that Hanzo could not even make them out, and how he had more nightmares about his final words afterwards than the deed itself. How if he looked too closely, he could still see the blood under his nails, and often he awoke feeling sticky dried blood--- how he could never look at a sword the same, or one shade of vibrant green just brought to mind the tatami black with thick blood.

And when she asked, he told her the before. He told her about his father dying, his crumpled warm body slung over Hanzo’s shoulder like discarded rice, about how angry he had been-- his brother should have been there, why was he never there when Hanzo needed him, and oh, he had needed him then. He told her about the scathing looks Sojiro sent him. He told her about the frequent nights he spent alone when he was young; his father working and Genji cradled to his chest like a sick kitten, Hanzo all of nine and Genji only six. Their mother, well-meaning but stuck with the burden of children, a year dead from the omnic crisis. He told her about the beatings he would get for his insolence, the long hours he would sit seiza on ice for one moment of impertinence. You do not say no to me, boy.

Genji never had that experience. Hanzo was sure of it, and aside from that: Genji’s rebellion was entertaining. Hanzo’s was unacceptable. 

And he told her about the time when everything had almost been perfect. Sojiro Shimada was alive and well, Hanzo was young, Genji had not discovered the temptations of cocaine and meth and LSD and heroin and the human flesh, and the two of them could play video games and goof around and pretend that their life wasn’t written for them like a twisted prophecy. He told her about the nicknames he had for Genji (carrot-boy, greenie, otouto). About the hair dye he would sneak him, his own hands stained green after Genji had ruined his bleach job. About the bets on if so-and-so would win in this spar, or if so-and-so will get them for lessons this time. About how when Hanzo was eighteen and the rebellion had not yet been beaten out of him, he went and got his bridge pierced and Genji held his hand the whole time. While Hanzo fiddled with the fresh piercing, Genji danced around him with his phone flashing, chanting “Vogue! Vogue! Vogue!” 

He wondered what happened to those pictures.

And with more prodding, gentle prodding, like the careful pacing of a camera man about the last rhino alive, Hanzo told her about the after. He told her about the bloodtrail he left behind him when he escaped that night, about the bodies razed like a wildfire guided his sword, about how he awoke the next day eight hundred miles away and so confused that he jumped at his own shadow. About how he grew to detest even the little things--- the sculpted muscle on his arms, the way his voice would catch in his throat, the harsh tone he found using with the most undeserving. What did he hate most? He could not even begin to tell. And all of this was held tight to his chest, like a poisonous ball of the strongest venom, boiling his blood down to syrup; it fluctuated, expanded, compressed, and by the time Hanzo hit thirty his chest held the pressure of the Mariana Trench. His hair-- he confided--- was perhaps the most undue target for his abuse. He cut it. Burned it. He pulled dull kitchen knives through the silky tresses through burning, tear-filled eyes, and he came out of it like a barbie doll put through the most rigorous course of children. Some strands were long, silky, others bent and broken, cut at angles so extreme it was almost a sheer drop, other places so close that he nicked his head in the act of shearing. Hanzo motioned to the mess by his ears, the last harrowing result of the last time the Mariana Trench within him imploded.

If the Mariana Trench was inside him, above the Mariana trench was a concentrated bomb of self-loathing and regret and nightmares and alcohol. Like the calm surface of the ocean right before a storm. The sky bleak and gunmetal above the still waves. No sound. Like a strange filter, blue light that offered visibility but dampened life. Dead. Dead. Dead. So much water, so many miles, and all of it silent and lifeless. Any rock dropped in it would not make a splash or sound, it would just be pulled down into the murky depths, compounded in the Mariana and never seen again. 

What about now? All these years-- thirty, thirty-two, thirty-five, thirty-eight-- what does it feel like now?

It took several sessions for Hanzo to find an answer for that. 

It felt like the ocean was draining, and the dark oil of his insides had finally seen the light of day. The mass wanted to claim, and strangle, and it was easy to imagine disappearing into it, and it took so much out of him to not dive in that sometimes all he did was lay in bed. 

Dr. Phao took notes only when he paused. Perhaps Hanzo had his father’s knack for stories. 

Somehow, talking about it made it easier. It reminded Hanzo that there were good times. That he perhaps was a good older brother at one time in the distant past. That perhaps he was unfair to himself. That perhaps, perhaps, perhaps the Mariana was all in his head, and he wasn’t just a skeleton at the bottom of ocean, brittle bones being used for another’s life. Perhaps.

Hanzo ran out words, eventually. It seemed like all that could have been said was said. So Dr. Phao gave him words to use. 

She explained things like grooming, and PTSD, and the difference between blame and responsibility, and suicidal ideation, and made Hanzo rethink all the things he thought. Why do you think that? She would query over and over. Hanzo would have to stop and reconsider, and sometimes things clicked. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes Hanzo took an angry break, because why didn’t Dr. Phao get it-- it was his fault, all of it-- and after about thirty one sessions, he stopped resisting. 

 

This would be his 73rd session. 

As per routine, Dr. Phao fetched him from the waiting room where Hanzo sat patiently on his phone. Hanzo tapped out a quick goodbye to Hana in the messenger app and stowed it away, where it continued to vibrate in his pocket. . They made small talk and spoke about simple things in her life. She described her weekend. Hanzo queried after her wives. It was simple. When Hanzo was finally sat in the chair in the corner of her office and clutching his cup of tea, Dr. Phao finally got down to business.

“How is your depression medication working?” She asked, holoboard clutched on her lap and her legs folded underneath her.

“Fine,” Hanzo answered. “Whenever I miss a dose or am late, my drowsiness increases, but I hear that is common for this medication.”

“It is,” Dr. Phao agreed. “But you are usually very punctual about taking it, so I am not too worried. What about the nightmares? Have they improved?”

“I still have them on the semi-regular, but the exposure therapy worked, however resistant I was to the idea.”

“Now, I won’t say I told you so,” Dr. Phao trailed off with a mischievous look on her face. She swiped at her holoboard. “And the mood swings?”

“The Clozaril works well.”

“Good! Good,” Dr. Phao’s face was absolutely glowing as she put her holoboard on her desk. Then she leaned onto her fist and said, “Now tell me about work.”

Hanzo recounted every detail about the omnic rights scene in King’s Row. It was almost too simple to become involved with this intensely passionate community. Always there was another front to fight on, and when he simply slid into line, no one questioned him. He met an omnic-human couple who recounted their tale of being at the forefront of almost every conflict in the last ten years. Hanzo learned from them that legends died with a single sound, and their crumpled bodies almost looked peaceful sprawled in the limo. He attended regular meetings with them, lobbied, protested. Perhaps he would call them ‘friends’, but to do so brought forth a sense of guilt. He was using their ferocity and hard work and passion for a mission. It was disingenuous, but Hanzo had little choice.

Recently, it had been headlining that the employment rate of crisis-era omnic models had been at a terrifying 22%. Employers discriminated against the models, who often had been produced after the ceasefire by God Programs who still seeked to create, or had been reprogrammed after the end, or had been simple blue-collar labor models who hadn’t harmed a singular soul. Poverty and violence was on the rise, and repeated appeals to get the laws changed had not worked; a parliament member had been recently elected despite their violent anti-omnic platform. A large protest was planned outside the King’s Row courthouse in order to encourage the parliament to take action and enforce stricter laws. Hanzo told this all through the lens of an observer, not as an active participant. It would be dangerous to explain when and where protests would take place.

Eventually Hanzo drifted off to describe the daily calls from his brother and the occasional streaming with Hana and his plans for Christmas. He was unable to join Hana on her streams as a guest, but he worked as a mod whenever she needed him too. It was easier than expected, although Hanzo often had help from the other mods with the functions. Mostly he moderated the use of abusive language, spamming, and the occasional heckler who would insult Hana’s sex, ethnicity or nationality. Sometimes Genji would make an appearance between missions, but he mostly just stayed in the chatroom and spammed different reactions.  
He and Genji talked often. In the beginning they had argued, often, especially after therapy appointments that left Hanzo feeling rubbed raw. It brought him great shame to snap at his brother, who often did nothing to warrant it, but as of late they had been getting along better. They still argued. Iit would be naive to assume that all of the wounds of their past would heal in a span of six months, and often Genji was too overwhelmed with bitter memories to talk casually. Sometimes, the pain was too bad that day. Sometimes a nightmare would make the air tense. But they were working on acknowledging these things as inevitable; what Hanzo did was done, and it was necessary for them to accept the after effects.  
Dr. Phao and Hanzo talked about whether or not he would stay in London for Christmas or if he would return to Gibraltar. Hanzo wanted to stay in London. Dr. Phao suggested he visit Gibraltar. “There is no point,” Hanzo said idly. “It will just be Genji, Winston and I. Most everyone had families. Hana will be in Korea visiting her mother.”  
“But you will not let Genji visit you here,” she said.  
“It is expensive and will blow my cover. And we are Japanese! Why even celebrate?”  
Dr. Phao, who was very attached to Christmas, tutted.  
They had not reached a conclusion when Hanzo’s phone began to buzz in his jean pocket. Dr. Phao stopped mid word and looked up at him, eyebrows raised. Hanzo never looked at his phone or allowed it to distract him during appointments; he nodded apologetically and pulled it out to quickly check the screen. Genji and Hana knew better than to call him during therapy sessions, though occasionally they did the timezone math wrong and called during an inopportune time. Hanzo would dismiss the call and reach out later, but the number on the screen was an encoded one Hanzo knew well. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, and he stepped outside the office to answer.

He clicked the green button and cradled it to his ear as he picked at his nail. “Hanzo,” he greeted dully.

“Howdy!”

Hanzo rolled his eyes, although it was less irritated than it was almost fond. “This had better be important,” he drawled blithely. “I was in the middle of something.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Therapy session, I reckon? I wouldn’t interrupt that if I had a choice, but somethin's popped up all sudden-like and you just happen to be in the right place, compadre.”

Hanzo examined his cuticle in feigned disinterest. He would not claim that he and McCree were now close, but… It was hard to think of the man in the same hate-fueled way when he clearly made such an effort to repair bridges. Despite Hanzo’s spiteful behavior in the medical bay, McCree’s effort to comfort him through indulgences of his hobby was appreciated. The books had a special place at Hanzo’s bedside. As time went on, McCree and Hanzo began to bond over their shared history and friends rather than bicker over their irritable attitudes. They shared emails and texts sparsely. Sometimes Hanzo texted him pictures that reminded him of the vaquero. Dr. Phao encouraged him to be more open with his thoughts, after all, and when Hanzo was so bad at starting a genuine friendly conversation, sending pictures of a man with a huge dick-like cactus cradled in between his legs made sense.

(He regretted it seconds after he pressed send. Later, he received a vine of McCree excitedly showing the picture to anyone that would look and Genji’s beleaguered expression).

“I understand. What is the matter?” Hanzo answered. 

“Heard word of a protest tomorrow outside the courthouse considerin’ the employment rate of Crisis-era omnics models. Y’heard of it?”

“Yes,” Hanzo answers curtly. “I mentioned it in my last mission update to Winston. It has been planned meticulously.” He should know. He suggested the date to the organizers. 

“Well, a lil birdie told us that there’s a couple of Talon agents in the crowd wantin’ to stir up trouble an’ make it into a full blown revolt. Drag in the riot troops from the police. Mass murder. You know how it is.” The babble in McCree’s background grew in crescendo. 

“Is that Hanzo?” A voice Hanzo recognized as Lúcio said. “Tell him I said ‘what’s up!’ We miss his grumpy self, you know!”

“Hanzo?” Oxton echoed. “Tell him I said hiya, too!”

“Lúcio and Lena said hello,” McCree told Hanzo.

“‘Greetings’.”

“He said ‘Greetin’s!”

“Regardless,” Hanzo interrupted. “Who is this informat? That is very delicate information to release.”

“Not a clue. Got it from our last mission in Germany, was sittin’ in a server practically unguarded. Told Winston it was too easy but he figured it’s too good to let up.”

“Suspicious. I will be there.

“Now hold your horses, sugarpie. Me an’ four other people are gonna crash at your place tonight and rendezvous at the protest tomorrow to make sure this thing don’t go up in flames.”

Hanzo sighed. He was not sure what Winston was thinking, letting them all crash at his place. He was an ‘unemployed’ immigrant in one of the most expensive cities in the world. He did not have a lot of space. Regardless, it was not like he could argue, so Hanzo just accepted his fate. And it had been a while since he had seen everyone. “Understood. Estimated time?”

“About 2100 your time. Have dinner ready for us!”

“You are a full grown man. You may make dinner yourself.” And Hanzo hung up. He stepped back into his office to find Dr. Phao aimlessly clicking around on her computer. 

“Dr. Phao,” he said. 

“Yes?” She answered quickly, as if she was not just googling dog pictures.

“That was work. I apologize for my rudeness,” He sat himself back down in the chair. Dr. Phao nodded. 

“It cannot be avoided. Work is work. May I ask what is the occasion?”

“I am to expect company tomorrow,” Hanzo replied. “A few of my coworkers are going to be in town so they will all stay with me while business keeps them.”

“Is it your brother?”

Hanzo paused. “I do not actually know,” he confessed. “I did not ask. I suppose I will just have to wait and see. I do know that McCree will be there.”

“The cowboy?” Dr. Phao asked loyally, as if she did not know that McCree was a multi-million dollar wanted man.

“Yes,” Hanzo replied. “He said to expect himself and four other people. He even had the audacity to tell me to have dinner ready for them.”

“And will you?”

Hanzo refused to answer that. “Regardless, I think that in case of the absolute worst, to hold my appointment Friday as a strict maybe. Perhaps you can take time off, spend a day in with your wives.”

Dr. Phao laughed and shook her head. “No, no. They are busy Friday, and I have a pressing paper to write on the prevalence of mental illness in omnics that worsens over time, and I think I just found the perfect way to prove it develops not as a mechanical malfunction but as a malevolent reaction to unhealthy surroundings and/or a reaction to stress.”

“Interesting. You have never gone in detail about your paper before. In fact, I believe I might know someone who will be delighted to help you with that.” And then they drifted in and out of conversation. A few more idle minutes was spent talking about nothing before Dr. Phao clapped her hands and looked at her watch.

“Before we run out time, I want to talk to you about this upcoming job. Is there anything you are worried about?”

“The nature of my work is often rife with worry.”

“Not like that, smartass. I mean other than that.”

Hanzo pauses. He leans on his knees and puts his face in his hand. “I think that maybe they will not all fit in my apartment,” he confesses. Dr. Phao nods and leans back in her chair, idly kicking her small legs around and around so that she spun.

“I see. Let me get a little more specific. McCree-- you do not talk of him much.”

Hanzo shrugged. “There is not a lot to say. We had an initially antagonistic relationship, and through acknowledgement that we were coworkers we were able to become less actively aggressive, but I believe the relationship took a more amicable turn sometime after my hospitalization. I send him pictures of dogs sometimes.” And giant dick-shaped cacti.

“Does he like them?”

“He responds with heart eyes. I know his favorite breed, but I do not think that we have had a serious conversation in more than two months. And what serious conversation we had did not have much emotional depth. I was angry, and mourning in a way. We just do not…,” Hanzo trailed off, snapping his fingers. “We do not… I cannot think of the English word.”

“Click?”

“Connect, but yes, thank you.”

\-----------------

Soon enough his session with Dr. Phao came to an end and Hanzo found himself traipsing through London with rain drizzling on his umbrella deep in thought. Not about anything specific, or deep. He was actually considering dinner.

Well, he did not want to prove McCree right and actually make dinner. But he also did not want to have to drag out the whole motley crew to find food, and also did not want to have to make do with his built-for-one refrigerator. He decided to meet in the middle by buying heaps of Indian takeout that could be warmed up later. By the time he was walking up to the steps of his apartment complex, cooling Indian in his hand, it was nearing near 6:00 pm and the sun was setting. Hanzo idly thought of the dishes he had to do and then the nap he might take before McCree and crew arrived.

But when he paused at his door, key ready, he heard scrabbling behind the door. The door was undisturbed. He did not have a window big enough for someone to crawl through unless they were the thickness of a noodle. Hanzo pressed his ear to the door, and wrapped his hand around the knife he kept secured on his belt.

 

Was that spurs?

Hanzo unlocked the door, turned the knob and opened the door. “Ow! Shit!” cried someone who did not own spurs. The previous quiet murmur grew to somewhat of a dull roar as Hanzo pushed the door all the way open. Lúcio danced out of the way, hands clamped over his nose. 

Like parasites, or perhaps a flock of bats, Genji, Mei, Lúcio and McCree were cradled in Hanzo’s tiny living room, pressed near shoulder to shoulder in want of space. The noise ceased. Silence ruled.

Lúcio dripped nose blood onto Hanzo’s clean floor. 

“Heeeeeeeeeey,” Genji finally crooned. “We’re here early!”

After three hours, Hanzo managed to rearrange all of his furniture and push together enough makeshift chairs so that everyone could sit in the living room in some crooked semicircle. The attempt at redecorating was frequently halted by everyone’s inane need to distract him with conversation, and the worst was Genji, who trailed after him being wholly unhelpful, chattering all sorts of questions and well-wishes. The largest one of the group was by far McCree, and even he was comfortable enough crammed between the wall and Genji. Hanzo claimed his armchair for himself. He wasn’t sharing. Then the (now cooled) Indian was passed around.

“Hanzo, How have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while.Your hair changed, it looks nice!” Mei said as she tries to stealthily sneak a spoonful of his curry. He slapped her wrist.

“I have been fine, thank you for your consideration, and yes, I shaved the sides.”

“It does look nice!” Genji added in. But he had no ulterior motives. “And the knot on the top keeps it traditional. Very classy.”

“How do you tie your hair up like that?” Lúcio asks. He pulls his own dreads over his shoulder. “Man, now my dreads gotta be like this to keep the stereos in, but back before--- Dude, I had the best hair. I coulda outclassed any of you clowns any day. No effort required.”

“Your hair really is very nice, Lucio. Very well maintained! I have been trying some of Hana’s new products, do you want to feel?” 

“Yeah, lean over. Ooooh that is nice, Mei, how did you do that?”

“I just followed the instructions on the box!”

The talk ended up becoming very domestic as Lucio regaled Mei with tales of permanent hair treatments, Lúcio searched his phone for selfies of his previous hair, and even Genji got in the conversation to talk about the joy of semi-permanent dyeing. He didn’t mention that Hanzo was the one who did all the dyeing, but still. Hanzo was content to watch. 

McCree caught his eye from across the room. He made a motion as if he were drinking something-- Hanzo raised his unopened water bottle in question. McCree shook his head. Ah. Liquor, then. Hanzo politely excused himself to tend to his guest’s needs. In truth he had been trying to cut back on the drinking, but his demons dogged his steps and sometimes you just needed liquor. A sleeping demon was not a felled one, but he was no Odysseus and his troubles were no giants. Slowly, slowly. 

Hanzo emerged out of his shotgun kitchen, Kokuryu sake clutched in his hand. A wide wolfish grin spread across McCree’s face just at the sight. It was almost infectious, and the motley crew spent the night drinking lightly and telling bawdy tales. Hanzo was even spurred into telling them of his greatest act of rebellion; his piercings he got in between training and learning that he somehow conned his father into letting him keep. For a short time, anyway. Just until the hole healed.

‘“So here I was, teriyaki all over in my face, in my ears, a hooker on one arm and my girlfriend on the other, this guys humongous knife pointed at me. I could barely stand at this point, much less try to do anything defensive--,”

“His hair was blonde at the time. He was in this phase, but the problem was he did it himself, it truly it was a horrendous orange shade. It got sticky and red with teriyaki all over it.”

“Thank you for the imagery, Hanzo, it is not like I am already embarrassed enough. Anyway! So I am covered in teriyaki, high off my firm, plush ass, and I am pretty sure I am going to die at the hand of some confused bartender. Then Hanzo busts in, quite literally kicking down the door. I do not know where he has been this entire assignment, but all he has on is his expensive blazer, slacks and some strippers lingerie!”

The group around them exploded into laughter. Mei had gone silent by this point from the mere force of her laughter, just shaking Jesse in disbelief. The cowboy shoved his face in his hat and giggled helplessly. 

“And he points his gun at the bartender and he says, in the most awful Arabic I have ever heard,” Genji cleared his throat and put on a terrible accent. “‘Shoot that man, and I will shoot off your dick but leave just enough for you to pathetically present to your wife.’”

Hanzo slipped down the couch in shame, hands pressed tight over his face. Lúcio looked at him, scandalized. “Hanzo!!!” He cried.

Hanzo did not even have the energy to explain how much cocaine he had consumed that night.

“The man drops the knife. I do not know why he’s cowering in front of Hanzo, because it looks like he might literally pop out of his stupid little bralette at any given point. And he starts begging for his life, in Japanese, but he is just saying ‘Say sorry! Say sorry!’ over and over again. Hooker gets sense at this point and knees me so hard in the dick I abstain for the next week and escapes. Girlfriend, poor thing, loyal to a fault, stays there while my stupid brother in lingerie is---,” Genji’s automated voice trails off as he helplessly tittered.

“Stop emphasizing the lingerie!” Hanzo demanded. In return, Genji moves his hands to mimic the bralette. He collapses in more laughter.

Hanzo covered his face, a long drawn out groan escaping him. The group was so busy laughing that Genji was unable to finish his story. When Hanzo finally surfaced from his hands, McCree had slumped onto the floor and curled into fetal position, Mei excused herself to the bathroom to try and recover, and Lúcio was fearlessly repeating the motion of ‘popping out of his stupid little bralette’. 

Hanzo took away the alcohol and escaped to the patio to drown his embarrassment. He made a few long draws before he was finally joined by company. Genji slid out onto the tiny little balcony with his mask off and a green face mask on.

“Hello, grumpy,” He greeted cheerfully.

“I am not grumpy. I am hoping to drown my embarrassment in this bottle and then hopefully tumble off to a quick and painless death.” Hanzo motioned seven stories down.

“What if you startle a passerby?”

“Oh, all the better. Collateral damage. Misery does love company. ”

Genji chortled and dragged over the little crappy table Hanzo left out there to sit on. The night was still young, after all. They continued on with smalltalk that didn’t feel satisfying over the phone. Genji motioned to her face and thanked him for the advice on skincare. Hanzo shared his own troubles with acne; he used to sit at a mirror and pick for hours which led to some gnarly scars that had to be fixed with a dermatologist. It was only then that he started to get serious about his skincare. As a young gangster, his face was one of the most important things to rely on. It was harder to take a teenager seriously when he had acne.

The night dragged on. The rest of the team gave Hanzo and Genji their space. Eventually Hana paused to bring out The Question. “How are you? Really.”

Hanzo had to pause to consider that question. He briefly considered brushing him off, and then he remembered her screams like the edges of a nightmare.  
If you keep it to yourself, you will become ashamed of it. And there is no need for shame.

“I just am. It seems the more I talk, the more work there seems to be, and the more I question if all of the work is really worth it. If I will just be like this forever; unapproachable, finicky, prone to moods, and ready to die at any moment,” Hanzo looked at his bottle and swirled it, like the cheap liquor was fine wine. “Then I think of you, and Hana, and I realize there must be more to life. This is certainly not a life to write books about, but I believe it is satisfying either way.”

Hanzo risked a glance at Genji. He was listening intently. He did not make a peep or even blink, her eyes trained unerringly on Hanzo.

There was a rock in his throat that seemed to get heavier the less Genji said. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the night, maybe it was the stress. Hanzo swallowed the stone.

“I know I have made errors,” Hanzo ventured. “Many which hurt you, or caused you distress. Despite this all you have stood next to me, even when I was difficult and it would have been easier to give up on me. Thank you, Genji. There is no way to repay you for your steadfast loyalty.”

Genji did not even take a moment to consider. “There is no need to thank me for what I did selfishly,” He interrupted. “Hanzo, you are my brother. I do not believe that family trumps all, but I believe that you tried your best when many in the family had already given up on me.” He jiggled his leg anxiously. “I know now, that the expectations of us were different. At the time, I did not, and it angered me. I wanted to know why I was not treated like you, the golden son, the son who could never mess up. I was never punished for my actions, but I was never taken seriously. Father treated me… as entertainment. As if he could have fun with me, where he could not have fun with you.” Genji clasped his hands together and his voice became tear-strained. “We were both used and then discarded. Like toys.” Genji took a deep, shaky breath into his hands. “I could not accept that. I wanted to know why. Why was I not worth it? Why was I not worth protecting? Why was I the first thrown to the wolves, and why were you the one made to do it? It was cruel, and thoughtless, and I was consumed in my rage. But I was angry at you, for your nature. For obeying. Why was it as easy for you to obey as it was for me to disobey?” Genji wiped a tear from his eye and shook his head.

“And I still do not understand,” he finished.  
Hanzo opened his mouth to say something, anything to justify himself, but it seemed that everything fell short.  
“I will never understand. I have gone through every circumstance, but I can never understand how you could raise your weapon to me. But I accept it. I accepted your nature, as it was then, and I accept your nature as it is now, because no matter what you were still my brother. You still are.” Genji clapped his hand on Hanzo’s shoulder and gave him a friendly shake, a thin watery little smile on his face. “Think about it, loser.” Sniffling, Genji snapped his mask back on, rose and walked back inside. 

As Genji exited, McCree entered. He rubbernecked as Genji brushed past him brusquely. “Interruptin’ something?” He asked. Hanzo shook his head, face hidden by his hand as he looked down at the street as if he was interested.McCree shrugged and leaned against the railing. He pulled a cigar out of his front pocket and lit it up without asking permission. 

The two stayed on the balcony for minutes afterwards, Jesse lounging on the wrought-iron gating and huffing his cigar, and Hanzo sitting on his sub-par little chair and trying to deriddle think about it, loser. About halfway through his smoke, McCree asked, “So, how do you spend your time here?” Very polite. They are sharing space, it is only natural to talk.

“Well, I--,” Hanzo started, willing to repeat the same thing he’s repeated four times tonight.

“Oh no, non’a that briefin’ shit. Rally here, main leaders them, yadda yadda yadda. I mean like, what do you really do? Them civil right leaders are only people an’ even they got other stuff goin’ on. So what about those hours? Y’know, that mission logs don’t really care about.” 

Hanzo looked at him. McCree looked back at him. Eventually, Hanzo fired back, “What do you do in the hours that mission logs do not care about?”

McCree took the reflection in stride. “I like goin’ out and about, when I can. My bounty is high, which means I can’t do it as much as I want to without disguise, but there’s somethin’ to be said about that those small restaurants. You know, authentic food, not like westernized bullshit. And when I ain’t doin’ that, or smokin’, or drinkin’, I’m…,” McCree stopped to consider, tapping his cigar on his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Hm. Truthfully, ever since I gave you that poetry, I kinda… Picked up some myself. Not writin’! Lord, not that, jus’ reading.” He popped the smoke back in. “Genre’s so big that I didn’t even know where in sam’s seven hell’s to begin, so I just went backwards. Right now I’m hoverin’ right around the golden age of cowboy poetry,” He spread his hands apart to signify the golden age. “An’ you know what, Hanzo? I am right embarrassed I gave you Milk and Honey. I hardly even looked at the thing, didn’t even read the back, but now that I gave it a gander I cannot believe I truly, sincerely, gave you a book that was all about the emotional ‘speriences of bein’ a woman.”

Hanzo let out a titter, that grew into a snort, which rolled into a laugh. Hanzo nearly slipped off the side of his chair from the force of his laughing.

A little grin, half-crooked, half-toothy grew on McCree’s face. When Hanzo risked a peek, McCree’s warmed eyes were looking just at him. “It ain’t that it’s badly written, not at all, it’s real blunt and poetry shit that I can see myself bein’ partially amiable too an’ everythin’, despite all of the debate over the content, because I gave it a google and trust me Hanzo there is debate, it’s just that,” McCree deflated, a tanned hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t be able to relate to the subject matter, bein’ that you ain’t a woman or generally ‘feminine’ in the least. I mean, not to imply that that’s a bad thing, in some fashion, though it could be, I mean like, look at ya!” McCree gestured to Hanzo in his entirety. Hanzo looked at himself. It was a button down that Hana had bought for him and black jeans.

“You’re on glorified desk duty an’ you still look like you’re straight outta one a’ th’ old Vin Diesel films. Jeeee-sus, jus’ lookin’ at your arms in a shirt is enough to get me feelin’ a certain kinda way. I mean, I gotta work out an’ get on this stupid diet with boiled chicken an’ cauliflower to even get a lil’ bit of ab. So you ain’t not-masculine! In the least! An’ you’re a real take charge, stereotypical boss kinda guy, right, so I do not know where in the hell you’re supposed to relate to some flowery poems about like the power of vagina’s or whatever. Implyin’ that havin’ a certain set of parts dictates that or whatever, real outdated shit like that…,”

The more McCree tried to justify himself the harder Hanzo laughed. At the beginning he tried to keep it in to save McCree’s pride, but in the end even a little breath could make him laugh. So he laughed all the way through. “And it ain’t like it’d appeal to you! Like half of that shit about love, feel like it’s comin’ straight outta a straight woman’s mouth, way she talks about him this and he that. Not sayin’ you ain’t been in love, that’d be awful assumptive of me, I’m tryna say--,”

When he finally got a chance to breathe, he said, “McCree. It is alright. I enjoyed the book, and it is not all about a ‘woman’s’ perspective. Some of it is about trauma, though I admit the parts about love are rather melodramatic.”

“Yeah, I saw that, but a lot of those old literature folk like to argue that it’s feminine-coded or some other such bookish bullshit,” McCree replied. 

“Old literature folk will argue. The fact of the matter is that poetry, much like art, is an individual experience we all have to conquer,” Hanzo moved over to the only other unoccupied chair, leaving McCree room to sit. “And her lines on love, while flowery, I feel echo my experience of love. Your first love is always the dramatic one, yes?”

McCree took the seat. “Tell me about ‘er, then.”  
“Him,” Hanzo answered with a moment of hesitation. His sexuality was something he was coming to terms with. He knew was gay, and had for a long time, but was still coming to terms that he was allowed to be. There was no clan to continue now, was there?  
“Him, then!” Something like interest lit up McCree’s eyes.  
“He…,” Hanzo leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. How would he proceed? “He was a grunt from a distant family in the Shimada Clan. The way our clan was built was with blood relatives, and then smaller factions that were either absorbed when we obtained their territory, sworn in, or had married in. He was someone whose grandfather had sworn in, forever long ago. Sanada Kakeru. We worked together on one assignment when I was seventeen and I grew enamoured with him,” Hanzo let out an embarrassed huff and pressed his forehead into his hand. “He was very much into men, and one of the first I met who was so forthcoming about the issue… It was not necessarily taboo, but if you were expected to continue your family name it was shameful to admit. He was the youngest of three, and thus it was not a problem. He very quickly charmed me, and we dated for almost a year. Secretly, of course, Father would never have let me continue… He just assumed I had finally made a friend. He was fun, and made me laugh, and it seemed that I needed no more standards than that as a teenager.”  
“Did Genji know?”  
Hanzo stopped. Did Genji know? He honestly could not remember. Genji had gotten involved in his own interests and vices during that time, and most of the time the time they spent together was focused on Genji’s life rather than his own. “No,” Hanzo said slowly. “I do not think he did, but if he did know, I do not recall him confronting me about it. Anyway, it was short lived. Kakeru tired of being in the closet. I could not dare come out of it, nor could ever entertain our relationship in a serious aspect. I was engaged to some girl in Tokyo. He ended up cheating on me, and afterwards we never spoke again.”

McCree was quiet for a long moment. “Oh, damn. That sucks, sweetheart. Sucks real bad.”

“I need no sympathy. It is an old wound, and I was vindicated in my revenge. He, nor his family, would enjoy any upward movement in the clan. They were stuck as grunts as long as I lived, and no one would ever know why.” McCree let out a holler and began to smack Hanzo’s arm in earnest. “You really did that? That was amazin’! Great! That’ll learn ‘em.” Hanzo hid his giggle in his chest. “And you, McCree? Have you been in love before?”

McCree let out a noise somewhere between embarassment and reluctance. “Naw, nothin’ like that… Had some flings, maybe, been real interested in people without them even givin’ a half glance at me, been with people more interested in me than I am them, a couple of rolls around, some fun dates… Nothin’ real serious-like. Which hurts, Hanzo, I consider myself a real once-in-a-lifetime romantic.”

Hanzo reached over and snagged a cigar from McCree’s open package and lit it on McCree’s lit cigar. “A romantic?” He queried disbelievingly, tucking the cigar into his mouth. He did not see the way McCree’s eyes followed the curve of his lips.  
“Sure am! One day, you’ll see.”  
“How unlucky will I be to witness your declaration of love to your suitor, then.” Hanzo flipped his cigar to the other side of his mouth. “You said you were reading poetry. What do you think?” He was quick to change the subject.

McCree took the change in stride. “It’s interestin’. The civil rights movement was an interestin’ one, as they really just threw rhyme out the window and emphasized the rhythm. Right now I’m hoverin’ right around the 1930’s,” McCree wiggled his hand around to signify the abstractness.  
“Which is a lot rougher than it sounds because a lot of men wrote sad poetry about World War One. Much of it substantial, but I jus’ can’t relate to people who went to defend their country as I’ve done no such thing so I can’t really see the whole ‘went to serve my country and saw the worst of humanity, what the fuck’ kind of vibe. The 1930’s I like. The great depression, the dust bowl, all these other events were tyin’ into a very… uh, gloomy? Dead landscapey vibe, which reminds me a lot of home. Y’know, New Mexico.” Hanzo had not known, but now he did. Thankfully he didn’t have to blunder into a faux pas like that. “Grew up in a pretty poor place, Mom left Canada an’ her reservation to be with someone she thought was the love of her life who just ended up dealin’ drugs an gettin’ mixed up with Deadlock gang. Typical sad thing like that. Maybe I jus’ missed the desert,” McCree rambled on, perhaps assuming that Hanzo was not listening intently to every word. But Hanzo did hang on to every word as McCree went on to talk more about the desert and what he liked, and the pictures that he could relate too. His eyes lit up with passion as he spoke of his homeland. Whenever he told a story, he build the setting with the sway of his body, the spacing of his hands. Hanzo found himself smiling unconsciously.

“And, believe you me, I’ve seen the worst these poor rural folk can offer but you can’t deny that they are some of the hardest worker’s I ever did see. I knew moms and dads by the dozen who would bust their ass nigh unlivable conditions--- 16 hour days, unsafe, unregulated heat, you name it--- just to put food on the table and air condition’ in the house. Even then, the education had the reliability of bein’ subpar, at best, so they get labeled as hillbillies an’ hicks and whatnot--,” McCree shook his finger. “An’ I’ll have you know there is a difference between hillbillies an’ hicks, thank you kindly, but anyway but they’re just poor, stuck in a racist environment and given the lowest kind of education you can legally give a kid and told to run with it. Crime’s high because crime pays bills that minimum wage workin’ doesn’t, guns’re high because legislators don’t wanna deal with the cost of roundin’ up out of date arms and there’s a lot of crime, police are corrupt to here and back arrestin’ us brown kids unjustly… Damn, Hanzo, believe you me, that place was like a serpent devourin’ it’s own tail with how shitty it is. Glad I left. But I ain’t ever gonna stop missin’ the childhood sights I grew up with before I realized how miserable everyone was. That’s why I think that cowboy an’ dust bowl era writin’ was so particularly interestin’, because it paints all these honest, hard-workin’ folk as victims to this higher power or nature or some other uncontrollable beast an’ they jus’ had to deal. A lot like my hometown.” He jolted, as if he suddenly remembered he was actually talking to someone and not just talking aimlessly on his own. His face turned ruddy. “Oh, shit, I’ve been ramblin’. Sorry.”

Hanzo, instead of reprimanding him, simply leaned his on his hand. “No, it is not rambling. It was interesting to hear you speak so forthcomingly about your past, and it was flattering for you to look into an interest of mine. I am glad you enjoy it.”

McCree let out a low laugh. “I ain’t gonna lie t’you Hanzo, there’s more to it than bein’ curious. I wanted to-” Again the hand went to the neck, this time tilting the hat so that it concealed McCree’s eyes. “Truthfully, I wanted to give us somethin’ to talk about. You seemed reserved, an’ I believe we’re similar but you don’t start a friendship with ‘our emotional baggage is compatible, wanna hang?’ So…,” McCree trailed off into silence. 

Hanzo paused. A little voice in the back of his head told him not to do it, but his mouth moved faster. “Our emotional baggage is compatible, would you like to ‘hang’?” He asked, half-joking, half-serious. 

Another smile lit up McCree’s face, his teeth peekin adorably onto his lip from the face-splitting grin. He stuck a hand out to Hanzo, and confusedly, he shook it. “Partners!” McCree declared, and dragged Hanzo in for a hug. Before he could even realize that it was happening, it was over.

 

“I can think of a few newer age poets that you might like,” Hanzo continued awkwardly. “Truthfully, many ‘newer’ poems are focused on a gender-relative and LGBT basis, and then there is of course the omnic crisis, but I think you would like Proxies. By Blanchfield or something else.”

It was getting late. Hanzo got up to go to bed else he wakes with both a headache and feeling groggy from his sleep medication. McCree stood up and got out of the way, leaving just enough room for Hanzo to squeeze by his large, bulky frame. “What’s it about?”

“Remembering the past.” Hanzo stopped to consider. He turned to look at McCree over his shoulders, found him hunched to the fencing and clutching his hat to his chest like a lifeline. “I think a tumbleweed makes an appearance.” And Hanzo went inside.


	2. A Protest Joined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo and Jesse meet Hanzo's 'contacts' in the movement.

Hanzo woke with the sun. It cascaded through his small window and ended just under his eyes, and when he opened them he immediately cringed at the bright light. He felt over his bed in an attempt to find his phone, but all he found was Genji’s cold shoulder. He was crushed to the wall of his bed as Genji tried his best to declare single ownership over the twin bed. Right. He had plugged his phone into a different socket by the edge of the bed. He had to drag it up by the cord, and when he did, there was one bright notification at the top of his screen:

 

**Buckingham Palace protest DELAYED to 9 p.m. due to leak to fascist anti-omnic groups. Stay safe!**

 

Hanzo climbed over his brother as best he could. He stumbled out of the room, still blinking sleep from his eyes, ready to shower and wake the rest. To his surprise, Mei was awake already and sitting on the couch with her tablet, reading a scientific journal.  Her hair was still dripping wet from a shower. “Morning,” she greeted brightly. She motioned to the stove, where she had a pot still steaming. “I made some soup and rice for breakfast. Do you jog in the morning?”

 

Hanzo went to investigate the soup; it was still warm and had some well seasoned tofu from Hanzo’s fridge in it, along with what looked like soybeans. There was a bowl of rice beside it. “I do usually, but I did not want to jog this morning and leave you all alone in my home.” Hanzo started himself some tea. “Do you wish to join?”

 

“Me? Oh, no no, no thank you. I don’t jog unless there’s a reason too! And I do not want to be too sweaty for the protest at 11. Right? ”

 

“Yes--- no,” Hanzo corrected himself. He served himself a bowl of rice and a bowl of soup. “They rearranged it. Human supremacists found out the location and time of the protest, so they changed it for safety purposes. It is at 2100 now.”

 

“Oof. That means less visibility.”

 

“For both sides. But protesters usually bring bright lights and cameras to capture the supremacist’s face nowadays.”

 

“Why?”

 

Hanzo let out a guilty little snort of satisfaction. “Identification. The next day is flooded with workplaces, addresses, phone numbers… Things like that.” Mei let out a little, albeit terrified giggle. The teapot began to scream, so Hanzo took it off the heat as Mei took a seat on the breakfast nook bar chair. He began to pour her a cup in one of his little thrift store tea mugs.

 

Lúcio and McCree were sleeping in the small living/sitting room. Lúcio took up the entire couch, and McCree was sleeping sitting up in Hanzo’s one (1) sitting chair. It looked like he had been dozing on his fist at one point, but he had slipped and was now drooling freely all over his arm. All power to him. They hadn’t roused through all of Mei and Hanzo’s talking or cooking.

 

While Hanzo ate his breakfast stooped over the counter, Mei sipped her tea with neat preoccupation, reading her tablet quietly. 

McCree eventually stirred awake, maybe from the smell of food, and he grumpily wandered over to Hanzo’s position in the kitchen. “Hello,” Hanzo greeted. He served McCree a bowl of rice and soup. McCree looks at it with distaste, so Hanzo takes it back. McCree wrestles it back.

 

“No! I want it!”

 

“Ungrateful mouths lead to empty stomachs,” Hanzo reminds him.

 

“It jus’ ain’t gonna be enough to fill me,” McCree whined.

 

“Feel free to get seconds,” Hanzo reminds him. He then leaves McCree to the food as he goes to wake up Genji.

 

In Hanzo’s absence, Genji had taken up the entire bed. One leg and one arm was dangling off the narrow side, swaying gently as he snored. “Genji, wake up.” Genji grunts in refusal. As Hanzo goes on to needle him, Genji just curls up in a ball and refuses to wake even further. Hanzo has to resort to ripping the blanket off (which sucks, because this was his own blanket and also he hates making the bed). Genji lets out a fatalistic screech and flails from the cold.

“It is morning, wake up. Everyone else is already eating,” Hanzo picks up his blanket and folds it for easier replacement later. Genji unfolds and splays open like a flower.

 

“<What is for breakfast?>”

 

“<Soybean soup and rice. Mei made it, very easy on the stomach.>”

 

“<Delicious.>” Genji sits up, yawns widely. One hand wanders as he tries to find his mask. “<Mission soon?>”

 

“<No, it was delayed. I figure that I would speak about it to the mission lead once everyone was up. In which, I am reminded.>” Hanzo flicks the lights on and off twice, to Genji’s displeasure, and leaves.

 

He passes by Lúcio leaving the bathroom as he goes to enter. “Morning,” the twenty-five year old greets sleepily. Hanzo grunts in reply and steps into his bathroom. He turns on the light,  grabs his toothbrush, and begins to brush his teeth. Genji soon squeezes in beside him, looking awake and unhappy about it.

 

“Morning,” Genji greets as he prepares his own toothbrush.

 

“Morning,” Hanzo greets around his.

 

The two share a morning conversation mostly filled with grunts, such as a ‘where is your floss’ and ‘do you use mouthwash?’ Hanzo goes on to shave his beard and after he’s done, Genji makes sure his face is clean shaven underneath the mask while Hanzo oils his prosthetics. 

 

“Are you showering?” 

 

“Maybe later,” Hanzo says dismissively. “I do not want my water bills to rise, and so many people have showered. Why? Do I look dirty?” He sniffs the collar of his shirt.

 

“You always look dirty. Stinky,” Genji answers in return. He rinses his mouth out. “Stinky brother.”

 

“I see. Well, I suppose that does not mean a lot coming from the ugly Shimada brother.”

 

“I am not  _ ugly _ . You are the ugly one. You never had a boyfriend or girlfriend while I had many.”

 

“Eh. That is not a measurement of your attractiveness. And if you were so attractive and admirable, name all of your ‘girlfriends’ and ‘boyfriends’ now.”

 

“I will!” Genji retort. “Atsuko, Ai, Charanko, Hinata, Yamanaka, Koji, Ryuuji,” And he continues to list them off on his fingers while he follows Hanzo back to his room. He is still half-rambling, half-listing as Hanzo changes clothes and he refills his shuriken department. “I mean, I do not know if you would consider him a boyfriend. There are so many random hook-ups and kissing that I do not know if I should include,” He finished off pulling on a hoodie.  He opened his arm compartment and began to count his shuriken, counting under his breath. “Ichi, ni, san, shi, go, roku, shichi, hachi,” he continued on. Genji trailed off. “Fuck. I am missing one. Have you seen one?”

 

“Seen what? A shuriken? Just laying around my apartment? No.”

 

“It would be hard to miss. Oooh, don’t wear that, it’s ugly.” Hanzo puts the brown shirt away. “Oh, here it is, I was sitting on it. Twenty-four shuriken! Right.” Genji stands up and stretches a bit while Hanzo peers in his mirror and begins to fuss with his hair. Genji’s earlier comment made him mindful of it. The gray was coming in hard, and he could see a bit of it peeking from his hairline… But it didn’t look too greasy, right? Hanzo sprayed dry shampoo in it, just in case it was. Genji watched him over his shoulder, assessing his every move. Eventually, as if Genji had become aware of his own staring, he broke away and sighed. 

 

“You are getting old,” Genji says, voice light like it didn’t hurt to think about. “Anyone of these days I will get getting grey as well,” He let out a long wistful sigh. 

 

“As you deserve. I began to grey at twenty-one.”

“So young!”

“I was old enough for the both of us.”

 

Genji picked up  _ one of Hanzo’s own shoes _ to hit him with before he stopped. “I never actually considered that,” Genji said thoughtfully. “Hm.”

 

Dressed for the day, Hanzo left Genji to his speculations and went out to the living area. Everyone was up and about now, all eating or dressing in some fashion. The soup pot and the rice pot was rapidly emptying, owing part to McCree. Hanzo made his own serving and sat down on the couch as Lúcio fiddled with his own prosthetics. Mmei sat in the armchair McCree abandoned, doing her makeup in a little hand mirror.

 

“Thank you for breakfast,” Hanzo said, which she acknowledged with a little hum. She was doing her eyeliner.

 

“Hey, y’mind if I shower?” McCree asked him, hat tucked to his chest. 

 

“Oh, you shower?” But Hanzo still waved him to the bathroom either. McCree’s hat hit him slightly on the way by but he still escaped. Genji came out soon after, served himself food, and sat on the armrest next to Hanzo.

 

“You will break it, do not sit like that.”

 

“Ah, I am only going to be here for a few minutes. So? What’s the plan? The protest was postponed but surely there is something else for us to do…,” Genji trailed off.

 

“I do not know. McCree just went to shower, so we have to wait until he gets back for instruction.”

 

“Instruction? I thought you were the lead this mission?”

 

“What.” That was news to Hanzo.

 

“Yes, you are the lead here. It is only natural, yes? You are the one who has been ‘undercover’ here, and you are the one who knows the most about the situation.” Genji lays his head on his hand. “I think Lena was considered, but in the end while she is more familiar with the area, your connections with the movement seems a worthy point in your favor… So. What will it be, chief?”

 

Hanzo paused, turning over the situation in his head. “If that is the case,” he said slowly, considering the weight of his words, “Then I need time to think.” 

 

The group came to an understanding consensus and Hanzo walked himself back into his room. Genji forwarded the document details to Hanzo’s work tablet and Hanzo collapsed on his bed to peek it over. Most of it was photocopied from Winston’s personal notes. It outlined Talon plans to turn the peaceful protest into a riot that would increase the tension between omnics and humans. While there were no notable figureheads now that Mondatta was dead, but if an unarmed omnic protester was murdered, then it might even cause more trouble than Mondatta death.

 

That worried Hanzo. He spent a lot of time with the omnic right movements in London, and many of them were full of young and fierce protesters who wanted to change the world. The common age ranged from high-schoolers to college students and upwards. He was an older outlier. Most of the older population had been involved in the Omnic Crisis, and held too much of their own bitterness. The younger generation was more welcoming, many too young to remember or born in the baby boom after. He could not imagine any of them sprawled lifeless on the concrete just because they happened to care. 

 

Hanzo chided himself for his empathy. Did he forget he used to be the person who killed, as long as the price was right?

 

Considering that, it would be hard to look for specific targets, especially without bias. Regardless of the fairy tales, you couldn’t look a man in the eye and know he was going to kill a man that day. It would just have to rely on a system of educated guesses, which meant that he needed to have good men on his team. He needed experienced, people-savvy agents on his side.

 

Lúcio would be a good person to have on the team. Although he had a recognizable face, he knew his way around these sort of things and could probably fit in with the environment well. He would be even better at picking out people in the crowd who were Talon plants, considering his own familiarity with Vishkar plants in his own protests.

 

McCree, on the other hand, was a no brainer. He was an experienced manipulator and special operations agent. If Hanzo had gotten to chose his personnel, Lúcio and McCree would have been the obvious picks. McCree especially was capable at picking out those in a crowd, shadowing someone without being seen, and interrogation from what Hanzo knew. Even without the more violent methods he was an easy talker and could blend well into a crowd, provided he hide the prosthetic. Maybe he would discover more talents.

 

Genji, however, was more of a confounding variable. While he was very influential, charismatic and talented in the art of assassination and reconnaissance, he was recognizable. He could try to say he was an omnic, but he was no omnic model anyone else was familiar with, and this would be the crowd to know the difference. He occasionally graced the news, especially back when Overwatch was active. He was one of the biggest threats to them losing their cover, and therefore blowing months of undercover work on Hanzo’s part. However, the chances of him being an advantageous addition to the team was too high to dismiss, even if he could.

 

The last variable in the equation was Mei. She was a talented agent, Hanzo had no doubts. She was tenacious and inventive. However, she was inexperienced. She was a scientist-turned-soldier and had no experience with tricky situations like this, and no training for undercover work. She would be deadweight if she was not used right. Hanzo would have chosen someone else or just gone short-handed rather than have her on the mission. But she was here now and there was nothing he could do about it, and there was no better way to learn than to do.

 

He pulled a piece of paper from his drawer and slapped it onto his desk and got to work.

 

…….

 

The team was briefed, the area reconned, and the time to leave nigh. Hanzo had raided his closet for clothes that would disguise the group.

 

No clothes of Hanzo’s would have fit Genji or Lúcio, as they were both too slim around the shoulders and hips, so Lúcio just pulled some coin out of his pocket and took the two shopping with strict instructions from Hanzo. Mei and McCree on the other hand were a different story.

 

Mei had brought a pair of leggings that she slipped into easily and her tennis shoes were average enough to ignore. So Hanzo took a dark t-shirt from some local small band and threw it at her. “This?” She inquired, turning to look at the front of it. It was black with red lettering and very melodramatic. She turned the shirt around to show him and raised her eyebrows. 

 

“Yes, that,” Hanzo intoned very gravely. “Take a pair of scissors and tear it up some. Do not worry, I will not miss it.” The band sucked anyway.

 

McCree was a different story. Without his accessories, some would think he could easily pass for a normal citizen, but it seemed every faucet of his person seemed to leak the bravado of a sleek vaquero.  Hanzo was determined to turn that look into one of a  _ bandito. _

So he dragged Jesse into the bathroom. The two stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, as they shared Hanzo’s hilariously small mirror. First, Hanzo made him shave his beard all the way off (except for an acceptable goatee) and apply makeup. Mostly eye makeup to smudge and then eyebrow makeup to make his brow sharper.

 

Then, Hanzo pulls some fake piercings out of a drawer and hand them to Jesse. “Here. Stick them wherever you feel fits.” Then he pulled his eyeliner out of the drawer and leaned in close to the mirror to do his eyes.

 

McCree looked at the fake piercings and shook his head. “Do you have spare real ones?” He asked.

 

“Yes, why?” Hanzo leaned back so McCree could have access to the drawer. IMcCree reached in and grabbed some still in a package. Hanzo stopped what he was doing to investigate.

 

McCree investigated the package.  It was mostly just silver studs and hoops, very simple and minimalist. He selected four pairs of hoops in the same diameter, tucked his hair behind his ear, and just slammed them in. Then he turned his head, tucked his hair, and repeated the process.  Hanzo didn’t even have a chance to so much as blink.

 

The silence is a little awkward as Jesse continues to rifle through his piercing drawer. Truthfully, Hanzo gathered piercings like they were trinkets. Many of the piercing pieces he possessed he did not even have a use for. People from the movement would spend the night, take off their piercings, and then forget them, and Hanzo stored them there in the thought that they might one day come back to retrieve them, but they rarely ever did. At least now they had use. McCree was rifling through them and selecting a few after examining them critically. 

 

“You got any rubbing alcohol?” McCree asked as he critically examined two rings meant for snakebites.

 

Hanzo wordlessly opened the mirror-medicine cabinet and handed him in. McCree liberally doused the piercings in alcohol, let the bacteria fizz out, flick the liquid off, and popped them in. He hardly even squeaked as he pushed them through holes Hanzo had not even noticed from the fuzz in his beard. Who knew how old they were? Decades?

 

By the end of Jesse’s rifling through his piercing drawer, McCree had seamlessly re-pierced his left and right eyebrow, his dimples, and after a pause, shaved a thick line through his eyebrow. He wiggled his eyebrows at Hanzo’s stunned look.

 

“I did not know you had so many… Piercings,” Hanzo managed.

 

“I used to run with the punk kind,” Jesse drawled. Even his voice sounded different. He allowed a little of his accent to peek in, something lilted but stilted, rough around the edges. A spanish accent? It was a far leap from his usual slow, confident drawl. “Real rough folks. Got a few piercings myself to fit in, but I ditched ‘em once I joined Overwatch. Ain’t regulation, an’ all.” Jesse appreciatively scrubs his hand over his face. He tilts his head this way and that, looking at all his new duds. “Y’know? I think these look mighty fine, indeed. What d’ya think?” He turned to Hanzo for approval.

 

Which Hanzo could give, by the way. McCree  _ definitely _ pulled the look off, and he pulled it off well. Especially now that the poorly maintained beard was gone. “Acceptable,” Said Hanzo, instead of what he wanted to say which would be  _ I never knew you could look that good. _

 

Next, was clothes. 

 

Hanzo discovered four things about McCree upon attempting to redress him.

 

  1. He was not nearly as attached to his clothes as one would assume. He folded his serape neatly, placed his belt on top of that and his hat on top of that. It had the perfect professionalism of an ex-army man who cared about his clothes, but McCree spent no time complaining.
  2. He was very hairy. Everywhere. 
  3. How did Hanzo know that he was very hairy? Because Jesse had no sense of modesty. Hanzo turned to his closet to dig for clothes, and when he turned back around to present McCree with them, McCree had already stripped down to his red boxer-briefs. It was… a lot to take in. A lot to look at. Hanzo attempted to look at exactly none of it. 
  4. Jesse was fucking huge. Not--- not in that way, but he was huge. Hanzo knew that Jesse towered over by nearly half a foot, but it only came into perspective about how broad his shoulders and muscles were. When Hanzo handed Jesse a red long-sleeve of his, it pulled at the shoulders and rode up short on the abdomen.



 

He finally declared Jesse ready when he was in the shirt, an oversized black leather jacket Hanzo had thankfully had, a pair of jeans that were so close to being too tight. Thankfully they were the same size shoe, so Hanzo just loaned Jesse an old pair of lace-up boots. The final touch on the outfit was a black bandana that Hanzo instructed Jesse put over his neck.

 

“When the protest begins, you need to put it over your mouth,” he told the full living room, demonstrating with his own bandana, which was red. The team was together and dressed. Mei had ripped his shirt into a crop top and pulled on Lúcio’s throw, Genji only had on a pair of red jeans and boots, Lúcio had shoved his hair into a black beanie, and put on a backless black shirt and jeans. Hanzo had settled for an old band shirt and jeans along with his usual work shoes.

 

“Why?” Mei wondered aloud as Hanzo handed her a bandana.

 

“You don’t wanna be identified at the scene,” Lúcio explained for him. “Especially if the cops are crooked. They’ll hunt you down for sure.”

 

“Yes,” Hanzo affirmed. “It also helps with our identity. You especially, Lúcio. You cannot be recognized.”

 

“Dude, I go incognito to these things all the time. Don’t even worry about it.”

 

They briefed the plan once again. Genji and Mei would be observing from the upper floor of the residential building catty-corner to the protest and would supply long distance support if needed. Lúcio would go as an individual party and get closer to the people that Hanzo did not mix well with (the college students, essentially). Lúcio was also in charge of crowd control in what ways he could manage. He would handle the right side of the crowd.

 

Jesse and Hanzo, on the other hand, were to bring up the opposite side immediately at the front. The crowd was going to get predictably large, and they needed to at least divide it into sections. Also, if something were to happen at the front, Hanzo trusted Jesse and himself to act the quickest. 

  
  


The plan was well-constructed and had plenty of flexibility for the unpredictable changes that comes with a movement like this. But he was still nervous.  This was his first group mission in a long time, and it was a large one. It seemed that there were no baby steps this time. The group prepared for the mission best as they could, stashing what weapons they could fit and chatting to lower tension. But in Hanzo, the nervousness and need to impress grew like a crescendo. He could feel his chest constricting and his mind narrowing into the black-and-white mission state he now knew to associate with his younger years of brutal training.

 

So he excused himself. He stepped inside of his room for a few minutes. He took out an old journal that Genji had gifted him by mail a few months ago. He didn’t know what his use for it originally was, because the act of admitting his anxieties and depressions on paper just seemed to be  _ begging _ an enemy to take advantage of it. But he still was loathe to waste a gift and loathe to not try, so he found a use out of it.

 

In a matter of minutes Hanzo finished the last stanza. Genji knocked on the door shortly and poked his head in. “Hey, it’s seven, ready to go?”  Hanzo slammed the book shut and rose from his desk. “Yes, let us depart.”

  
  
  


The night had a distinct chill of a winter precipitation, but the sky's held their guard as the team got into position. Genji and Mei had split off much earlier to climb to a vantage point somewhere around the square. Hanzo did not know where they would be; their communications were up and he did not want to risk the enemy finding the entire garden from one stray flower. The entire team was instructed to give vague, but specific details that only members of the team could recognize. This concept needed explaining to Lucio and Mei, who had never done such a thing before.

“Say you’re goin’ to meet us back at the apartment. You don’t need coded words, or anything, jus’ say ‘I am going back to homebase’. They will already know we have a homebase regardless, so we ain’t confirmin’ nothin’.” McCree explained to them as they all crowded on the ‘tube.

“Or ‘opponent is following our party’, and we will know who you are by voice. Feel free to pick out suspicious persons, because they know we are there to do that,” Genji added.

Genji, Hanzo and McCree were already familiar with the concept.   
After a small briefing, mostly consisting of ‘stay alert’, the team split. Lúcio had disappeared into the crowd. The man had hidden especially well, even though he was somewhat of a political figurehead. With his hair down and a mask over his face, he was almost inseparable from the rest of the protestors lingering around.

 

Jesse and Hanzo stayed together as discussed. The two made a cutting figure in the crowd; Jesse was over six foot tall and very serious looking with all of his piercings, and Hanzo’s natural brooding air made it so that people split to let them through. The crowd was not at critical mass, as it was still a good hour before the protest would start, but Hanzo had wanted to see if he could spot anything out of the ordinary and also check with his ‘acquaintances’ how they felt about this protest. They had organized it, and maybe they would know if there was something unexpected.

The location where the protest would take place was shaped like a T, with the Courthouse on the upper side and shops lining the stem of the T. On the corner, catty-corner to the sectioned off pavement, was a sleazy little coffee place that Hanzo knew intimately. The windows were streaked and browned, covered with posters advertising some-and-such band over another at some-and-such festival. A rusted little bell hung over the door; and in misprinted white script that was flaking and peeling,  _ The Sweetened Goblin _ . Muffled guitar leaked through the paper-thin walls.

Hanzo took McCree by the elbow and steered him towards the dilapidated building with purpose. They stopped just short of entering to allow McCree to look around. McCree did not look impressed. “M’not sure what I was expectin’, but I sure as fuck didn’t expect this,” McCree mumbled in an aside to Hanzo.

 

“If I had not been introduced to it, I would be equally as surprised as you are, I assure you,” Hanzo grumbled back. He fiddled one last time with his clothes and went to groom Jesse out of force of habit (partially nervous, partially to do something with his hands) but the cowboy-turned-punk swatted his hands away. “Je _ sus _ , ain’t you a fusser,” he commented, less annoyed and more surprised. He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. “Don’t worry about it, angel eyes, I got this under control. Used to have quite the bad boy in me back yonder.”

 

Hanzo rolled his eyes. “I am sure you were,” he lied. 

 

As they approached the building, what was previous muffled noise grew into distinctive guitar and drums. “I did not know  _ they _ were playing today,” Hanzo said under his breath. 

 

“Huh?”

 

“Nothing. Do not worry about it. Ready your ears.” Hanzo swung open the door. 

 

The guitar slid chords, the sound deafening without something in between them. The lyrics were half-yelled, half-sung, half-drowned out by the enthusiastic throng of people enjoying the music, screaming along.

 

**AND I’VE SAID SO MANY GOODBYES IN THE TWENTY-FIVE YEARS THAT I’VE BEEN ALIVE,**

 

**I**

 

**DON’T KNOW WHY**

 

**THIS ONE WAS SO HARD**

 

The tabless used to take up the oblong space, but several of them were shoved back to a cluttered cluster in order to make room for the crowd standing at the base of a mediocre raised stage. The tables made the area near the windows pretty much impassable. The few dark wood tables that were free were farther from the crowd, nearer to the ordering station. On the raised stage there were four people lit by harsh lights, hugging beat-up old instruments close to them, or in the case of the drummer, whaling on them with their entire body. The crowd around the stage was sizable, maybe three dozen strong, and eager black-clothed individuals climbed onto the stage to fall back into their arms. They surfed the crowd like that, screaming and hollering, and the surging mass of people pushing people into each other just seemed to enjoy it even more. 

Off to the side was a bar with only a few seats. It was empty except for a couple on the end nursing some alcohol and the people minding it; a tall omnic with a singular glowing blue forehead dot, and a smaller blonde woman in a beanie. The bar was crowded with drinks, spigots for beers, and also flavored pumps and other machines to make coffee. It seemed to be equally split between alcohol spirits and different kinds of teas and coffees, and they had a specialized menu that mixed both. 

McCree barely tagged onto Hanzo’s back as he pushed through the crowd to claim a table next to the dingy window. The floor underneath Hanzo’s prosthetics was sticky and sunken in on some points, and the place smelled vaguely of coffee, alcohol and body odor.

_ Never change, Sweetened Goblin. _ Hanzo thought as he pulled one stool out to sit at it. His feet did not touch the ground, but as McCree crept opposite him, his barely had to leave the ground.

 

McCree leaned over the table to speak to Hanzo; he was practically yelling over the din of the band. “Never thought you’d like a place like this! Gotta admit, you’re still a slippery one, Hanzo _.” _

 

Did he like this place?

 

He liked the music. It was rhythmic and passionate without abandoning the need to be wild, and it was full of the unbridled energy that Hanzo missed from his youth. The crowd was less admiring the performance as much as  _ performing _ with them and it all led to make one charged atmosphere. It was hard to find someone who wasn’t into the performance, even if they did not enjoy or know the music beforehand. 

 

And he really did actually like the music. He knew this song by heart. 

 

“Is it so strange _?” _ Hanzo yelled back.

 

McCree stopped the think about that one. He shook his head no, something like a smile at the edge of his countenance. He turned to look at the menu.

 

After the end of that song, the music didn’t continue. Hanzo turned to look at the band from his position at the bar. The singer, a lanky Eurasian man, leaned into the mic and tried to disguise his huffing and puffing. “Hey guys,” he said, his voice woefully accented. “We’re not quitting, so don’t throw a fit. We just need a break before we finish another set with Self Titled!” The crowd screamed in response. The band stepped off into the crowd and began to make their way towards the bar. The noise suddenly reduced ten-fold as the fans also dispersed to drink or find their poor wrecked buddies. 

 

Hanzo felt his phone vibrating in his pocket, so he went to answer it.  As he pulled it in front of him, a hand from behind the bar slammed it down. McCree watched the interaction with startled eyes, and he half-rose out of his chair to do something.

 

But it was just Hanzo’s friend in the scene, and she had been in the scene a long time. She was the blonde that minded the bar. During the performance she had been absent-mindedly polishing cups and watching the crowd, but now that it was over it appeared she had noticed Hanzo. Her grey eyes were glittering in the blacklight. 

 

She lowered her phone from her ear and hit the end button, and Hanzo’s phone stopped vibrating then as well. She let go of his phone and leaned halfway over the bar. He could picture her legs swinging as she scoot closer. “Nevermind that, probably no one important,” she said with a small smile.

 

“Hello, Ava,” Hanzo answered evenly. He turned to McCree, who had slowly sat down in confusion.  “Ava, this is an old acquaintance of mine, Javier. Javier, this is Ava.”

 

“Hello!” Ava said personably. She crossed her arm over her other arm to shake his hand.

 

“Hello,” McCree/”Javier” said. He bypassed the handshake for a fistbump, and that made Ava’s smile grow wider. “You picked a bad day to come sight seein’, Javier, think it’s about to get right fuckin’ nasty outside,” she said, turning to clasp his hand and bump it to her shoulder. “Online mags sure like to puff up the omnic right movement as  _ righteous _ until human supremacists show up, ha.”

 

“So they are still coming?” Hanzo queries. 

 

“Can’t stop ‘em!” Ava hopped down from the bar and began to make a drink in the glass she was previously cleaning.   “Ain’t a hate group, after all, ain’t gonna have no visible firearms, so we ain’t got no legal room to ban ‘em,” She filled the cup with a foamy pale liquid and pulled a bottle from under the counter. She tilted it and dropped three shots into the cup. She finishes it off with a cinnamon stick and dropped it in front of McCree. He looked down at it, startled. “Chai-Cinnamon Schnapps. See if you like it, we’re tryin’ somethin’ new.” McCree idly took a sip, and upon liking it, and began to drink more deeply. Ava fished out another cup and began to make Hanzo’s regularly, which was a sweetened iced coffee with bourbon. Hanzo had requested something with plum wine or sake, but she had a hard time pairing it with a coffee. “ An’ if anyone gets roughed up y’know that those blue fucks would turn it around on us somehow,” She topped off the drink with a dollop of whipped cream and dropped it in front of Hanzo. “So, slid a word in to Youssef, he was able to convince the mates to show up to see if they could least give us a good time first.” She jerked her thumb towards the now-empty stage.

 

“And so you got them to show up?”

 

“Unplanned an’ unannounced, as well!” Ava looked proud of herself.  

 

“Did your boss let you plan them?” McCree cut in, looking at her over the rim of his drink.

 

Ava winked at him. “Perks of bein’ your own boss, yeah?” Ava turned to motion to the crowd. The group of four was pushing through the crowd towards their table. The young man from previous lead the group with his bandmates trailing behind them, the group occasionally pausing to speak a word to the crowd or fistbump an individual. 

 

“Youssef!” Ava greeted the lead singer. Without a pause, she began to prepare another drink. This one was just a shallow, small dish that she filled with a dark brown liquid.

 

“Ava!” Youssef responded. He learned across the bar to smack two bills onto the bar. Ava made a noise of protest, but Youssef held up a hand to stop her. “Thank you so much for the invite. Did you like it?” He continued.

 

“Good as usual.  Brought a good crowd for the protest.” She put the espresso next to McCree and reluctantly tucked the bills into her apron.

 

“Nice, nice.” Youssef clapped her back and slid past her to sidle next to McCree. Hanzo sent him a look out of the corner of his eyes.  _ Do not _ , he said.

 

_ I will _ , his look said. “Hanzo,” Youssef drawled. “I didn’t know you were coming today!”  

 

“I did not know you were performing, but I would not miss any opportunity to become involved in a protest of such magnitude,” Hanzo replied smoothly, eyeing Youssef up and down.. “The performance was skilled, as per usual.”

 

“Aww, Hanzo, makes my heart warm, hearing that from you,” Youssef smiled, all teeth at Hanzo. He finished up with a little wink and a finger gun.

 

Hanzo rolled his eyes at him. “Youssef, this is Javier, an acquaintance of mine. I am taking him sight seeing while he’s in town.”

 

McCree stood up to his full height and shook Youssef’s hand firmly. 

 

“My name’s Javier, nice to meet you, man,” McCree said in a tone. 

 

Youssef looked McCree up and down, metal head bobbing to as he took in McCree’s muscular, pierced opinion. “ As-salāmu ʿalaykum! My name is Youssef, Eliyahi Youssef. It is nice to meet you, and so nice to see you. Did you leave your girlfriend at home?”

 

McCree let out an awkward little laugh. “If I had anyone waitin’ at home, it’d be a dude.”

 

Youssef a slow grin crawled up his face, and a slow red flush crawled from his ears.  “Two of a kind,” he replied. “Though I’m partial to a girl myself, my parents are glad to know.”

 

A feeling settled in Hanzo’s stomach that he was loathe to identify as  _ jealousy _ . So he did not. He was just uncomfortable, is all.  “Do not hit on my guest,” he snapped. “It is uncouth, and today is an important day. There is no time for your imprudence.”

 

Youssef rolled his eyes and took a sip of his espresso. “I had hardly begun, Hanzo,” he set it down. “Anyway, Javier, you stop by for the protest?”

“Something like that. Hanzo had plans to come, so I just tagged along.”

“Real committed. Hey, I notice an accent, where you from?”

“Ha, Texas. Mexico, technically, but the border passed me.”

“What you mean by that? I am not awful familiar with US history.”

Hanzo and Ava shared a look as the two began to talk more. It was mostly a casual conversation, but everyone could see the way Youssef leaned into the conversation.  Ava leaned forward to give Hanzo a gentle kiss on the cheek and clasp his hand while the other two were otherwise distracted. “How have you been?” She asked kindly.

“As well as could be, Ava, thank you.”

“I know last time you came by you were thinking about Christmas with your-- brother? But if you decide to not travel you know there’s always room with me and Frankie. We’ll even set up a stocking!” Hanzo patted her hand fondly but shook his head. 

“Thank you Ava, but I could not intrude.  I will speak to my brother soon and figure out our plans.”

“And if you don’t have any you  _ swear _ you will come by?” Her face was so open, so eager. Hanzo swallowed a laugh and looked down just so he wouldn’t be manipulated into saying _ yes, I will come by regardless _ .  “Yes, I swear.” 

By then Youssef’s break was over and the rest of the band was urging him back to the stage; his impatient mates pulled on his jacket and shirt, yet Youssef leaned in to talk to McCree as long as he could.  “Adieu!” He blew a kiss at Jesse. “Adieu!” He waved at everyone else. He sloshed through the crowd back to the stage, where he was  _ pushed _ back onto stage by his eager fans. Youssef shook a few hands, kissed a few cheeks, made a few jokes and handled his guitar with simple, familiar motions.  The music exploded into life again, Youssef leading the sound with his microphone cradled to his chest.

  
  


As the music continued on, the crowd grew louder and louder as the band came close to their finish. In the meantime Hanzo and McCree meaningfully watched the crowd building outside the coffeehouse, eyes scanning each individual as if somehow careful consideration would point out the future murderers. 

The idea that Hanzo was sitting outside of what could possibly become one of the biggest catastrophes of the 21st century and he was almost powerless to do anything but wait was troubling. A sort of anxiety grew in his stomach as the minutes ticked by, as familiar and new faces trickled by. All he could imagine was each way it could wrong, and how he would have failed.  _ Again.  _ Unbiddenly, the image of Hana came to his mind, to her tight-lipped, colorless face, her well-manicured hands pressuring the blood back in. He found himself staring numbly into the mirror, not accounting for a single face that was there, just the ones that were gone.

Before it could become overwhelming, Hanzo gripped the feeling with an iron fist and forced it back down. He breathed heavily out of his nose and put his face in his hands. His temples hurt. His sinuses hurt. His eyes hurt. This whole  _ caring _ thing was getting exhausting, physically and mentally. He knew it was worth it, but in moments like this all he could do was wish he could just physically detach himself from his feelings. They were overwhelming and often troublesome, dictated every _ stupid _ decision he had made in his life, and were nothing but a bother.

Just as he bitterly thought about the concept, the music changed from one rift to another to a heavy discordant tone. The jolt in his stomach was tell-tale; just as predicted, the rhythm and tune kicked in as well as the lyrics. A helpless, breathless laugh escaped him as he finally gave in to his heavy neck and allowed his head to fall into his hand. The music continued on, and the lyrics sounded a little like home. McCree glanced at him, doubletook, and focused his intense eyes on Hanzo.

“What is it?” He asked, in the brief, brief lull between sound.

**NOW THAT YOU’RE GONE, I’M BACK ON MY OWN,**

“This song just always reminded me of Genji and I,” Hanzo confessed in a moment of weakness. “I do not know why. Genji hates this kind of music.”

**GIVIN’ IT ALL UP TO LEAVE YOU ALONE**

**AND IF I HAD MY CHOICE--- I’D COME BACK SOON!**

McCree paused to listen to the lyrics; considered, chewed on it, then his face split into a grin. “I can see what you mean. Dunno, though, can see you ownin’ a crowd surf.”

**I NEVER WANTED TOO!**

“I would never,” Hanzo replied, scandalized. “They would find on my persons many dangerous weapons and curious instruments.”

**AND HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I LIED TO YOU?**

“‘Curious instruments’?”

**IF I WAS DRUNK WHEN I SAID IT, IT MIGHT’VE BEEN TRUE!**

“Deodorant, for example.” Jesse let out a snort that Hanzo could almost hear above the screaming.

**I KNOW-- NOW THAT YOU’RE GONE!! I’M BACK ON MY OWN…**

“Now that ain’t fair, this nice crowd don’t deserve that kind of venom.”

“Perhaps I was hasty in my judgement. I just cannot see myself trusting strangers to hold myself above hard concrete floor.”

“Yeah, hittin’ that might hurt. We’re gettin’ older than dirt, anyhow.”

“I am not so old. Shimadas grey young.”

“M _ hmmmm _ .”

 

The set ended off with a shrill note to a multitude of cheers. The band continued to speak in their mic about the set, the crowd, and the experience, but Hanzo tuned them out. Outside the window candlelight had begun to light in the street. The small white candles were placed on the side of street (not a good location), as more and more people showed up, their faces covered in some fashion similar to the Overwatch team. All Hanzo could hope is that the team was in position as he had instructed and that they were ready. A mission of this nature was unpredictable. It was not so simple as protecting a specific target or escorting a payload. At any point in this massive, undulating protest something could go wrong, and there could be little Hanzo could do to stop it. A mission like this he would have picked twenty men without hesitation. But there were only six of them on this mission, and only about twelve Overwatch members total.

 

These truly were dire straits, and Hanzo was braving them with driftwood and his own pruned hands. 

 

Hanzo and McCree stood unanimously, both agreeing that it was time to mingle within the crowd. They stepped outside the pub-coffeehouse into the biting London air. Hanzo let out a breath that quickly turned to icy vapors. “Y’know,” McCree says, closing the door behind him. “I feel I can carry a tune as well. Think I got a chance at bein’ in a band?”

“A tune, hm,” Hanzo answered, half-heartedly, too focused on guiding them from the entrance to their agreed upon starting point. “Sure can! Listen up--,” McCree danced in front of Hanzo to get his full attention. “Won’t you help me sober up? Growing up: it made me numb, and I want to feel somethin’ again.” McCree took Hanzo by the wrist and twirled him around, the tune of the song deep and slow in the back of his throat. He tucked his elbows in and took the pair into another spin again; it was all Hanzo could do to keep with the rhythm and not fall over like a fool. McCree pulled him close again, tucking Hanzo to his chest. He could feel his chest radiating heat in the cold winter night. “Won’t you help me sober up? All the big kids, they got drunk, and I wanna feel somethin’ again!”

Heart hammering in his throat, Hanzo had to swallow his nerves when he felt McCree’s hands settle on his sides. “What are--,” He began, somewhere between outraged and romanced, but then he felt McCree lean his mouth next to his ear. “Hey.” Hanzo stilled.

 

“There ain’t no tellin’ how this will turn,” McCree turned them in a slow circle, drawing out the embrace like it was a simple hug. “Listen, been in this kinda thing for a long time, an’ this shit ain’t got no skill or pattern. Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you just gotta curb the body count.” McCree’s hand traced up and down his spine, creeping to the lower dip that make Hanzo shiver. McCree titled his head so that he was laying on Hanzo’s shoulder. Y’hear? You’re a skilled guy, Hanzo, but you can’t be everywhere at once.  You’re doin’ what you can. An’ If I have to drag your bloody body outta here ‘cause you’re obsessed with th’ idea of tryin’ too hard---,” McCree trails off meaningfully, and disentangled them with one final squeeze.

 

The breath briefly leaves Hanzo’s chest. “You are not the leader of this operation,” he says with what force he can muster (and instead of it coming out self assured, he sounds stunned).

 

“I know I ain’t, I ain’t tryin’ to boss you around or anythin’ similar. I’m just sayin…,” Suddenly aware of perhaps how obsequentious he was being, McCree stepped back out of Hanzo’s personal space, face flushing a deep red. “I’m just sayin’ that I ain’t want you to grind yourself into dust again. Like you’re prone too,” The more McCree attempts to justify himself, the stranger and more convoluted his words sound. He reaches up for a hat to tilt when he realizes he does not have one.

“And how would you know I do that?” Hanzo reached up and took his bandana to move it over his nose. He had to foresight to wash it, so it smells pleasant. More pleasant than the London streets, at least. 

Taking his signal, McCree pulls his own bandana over his nose. “I’m a people watcher,” he says, suddenly full of a machismo Hanzo doesn’t recognize. “Why I’m so good at this job,” McCree then adds on, mostly under his breath. 

Without another word between them, McCree blends into the massing crowd. He fits so well between the pressed together bodies that Hanzo loses sight of his tall form in seconds. Shocked into stillness, Hanzo reaches up to thumb on his earpiece.  Immediately past the static it blows up with Genji’s voice. “What was  _ that _ ?” He screeched. 

“What was what?” Hanzo answered dully.

“Don’t play dumb, I know  _ you _ know that I  _ saw _ !”

“Jus’ playin’ up our cover,” McCree crooned into his earpiece. Hanzo rocked onto his heels to peer into the crowd, but he could not see McCree anywhere.

That is right. It is just a cover.

“No unnecessary chatter,” Hanzo interrupts Genji. Immediately the chatter quiets to silence, and he can take a deep breath.

Hanzo can only cling to a hope that all will go well, and the scattered team will reconvene at the agreed meeting point in a few hours tired, but not otherwise challenged. No one will die. Winston will congratulate him on a job well done. But Hanzo is also an aging man who has never known the touch of naivety; if something can go wrong, it will go wrong.

With that in his mind, Hanzo heads the opposite direction McCree, shouldering his way through the crowd. He, too, disappears.  


	3. And One Shadow

The way the protest is set up is that the bulk of the crowd is in a vaguely rectangular shape, taking up the majority of the street. They all face north, towards the courthouse. Despite the fact that the protesters are not armed and no violent or rebellious moves has been made, a line of policeman stand between the palace and the crowd. Hanzo and McCree had been on the western side of the gathering, but now McCree was bouncing through the middle while Lucio explored the east side. Hanzo would stay put at his location and scan rendezvous with McCree every thirty minutes as he came through the rest of the crowd. The police line are in full riot gear, down to the bulletproof kevlar and glowing blue bulletproof shields that used the same technology as Reinhardts. While it would not sustain focused heavy fire, from multiple people, it would at least last in this crowd. Their helmets were too thick to see anything through; impassive and inhuman were the people so willing to shoot on command. Some people are already standing by their sides, just inches from their shields, while other skirt back uncomfortably. 

Near the north, someone stands on a stand. Their head rises above the rest of the crowd. They are a tall and old model with reinforced sockets near the shoulders that was used as a gun tester and five dots in their head shaped like a pyramid. They raised a megaphone to their lipless face and made a short address that Hanzo could not hear. And then a rhythm built like a wave, and Hanzo could finally hear what was being said as it came back to him:  **_MADE FOR LABOR, KILLED FOR MINDS, THIS TIME WE WILL NOT STAY IN LINE!_ **  Hundreds of people hold signs aloft, declaring their allegiance with the omnic protesters and their voices one as they repeat chants. Unwilling to be left out but embarrassed, Hanzo joins with a fist in the air. He still scans for people who do not fit with the crowd; alone, quiet or generally separated from the crowd. He fits this criteria best of all, as does McCree. But besides those two outliers, no one else should be behaving in that way.

But he sees nothing aside from what he expects to see, so he drops his arm and attempts to move more inward.

The moving bodies of the protesters are hard to traverse through. Many of them assume he is going to the front and will not let Hanzo cut them in line, so he has to push through or go around. Their own pushing and moving knocks Hanzo around, and he collides with uncaring protestors. He is often shorter than him, and even the smallest have at least an inch or two on him, and it leads to strange circumstances where he’s sent careening towards a person’s face.  

Hanzo makes it through to the front of the crowd and into the police without finding anything noteworthy. Now that he is closer, Hanzo can see that the police’s helmets are not completely dark, but just a darker plastic, like a visor. He looks up after being pushed into a shield. A policeman sneers down at him through his plastic visor, and Hanzo matches his displeased look. Although he is not particularly on the ‘bad’ side of the law anymore (illegal organization notwithstanding), policemen have never made him comfortable. When he was younger, they were too easy to pay off. The Hanamura Police pocket publicly disavowed crime, but they lived in the pocket of the Shimada-Gumi. It was an uncomfortable experience, like learning that the sky is not up.

Hanzo diverts eye contact with the man and looks through the crowd again. Nothing. He hopes that the intel is bad; not the alternative. The crowd is large, and Hanzo has only looked through a small section of it, which leaves a troubling amount of persons not retconned. Assuming McCree covered the same amount of area that he did… and still came back with nothing.

Hanzo slips behind the front protesters and presses a finger to his ear. “Status.” He asks.

“Negative from ground,” Lucio chimes in. There is a yelled query, as if someone thought Lucio was talking to him.

“Negative from roof,” Mei chimed in. “Can’t even see you!”

“I can. Looking ugly,” Genji says, tone light and jovial, but his true mood is revealed with a steam train hiss. “But you’re the  _ only _ ugly one. No target.”

“I got jack shit,” McCree says. Hanzo swears he hears double, but when he turns to look, there is nothing but protestors. If McCree was there, there was no sign of him. 

The protest continues on and Hanzo paws through the crowd anxiously. He runs into Ava and her boyfriend in the front-middle of the crowd. The two of them are toting a sign that says  **IF I MUST WORK TO EXIST, LET ME WORK FAIRLY!** And standing shoulder to shoulder.  Ava greets him by a clap on the shoulder. Her boyfriend, Frankie, tugs him in to stand between them. Frankie is a taller omnic who is too skinny of stature to wear most anything but white tank tops and baggy capris, but he was a gruff, friendly guy despite his appearance. He and Ava met in the Omnic Uprising of ‘69 when Null Sector took over the area where their apartments were. Frankie had tugged Ava and another passerby into an alley and sheltered them with his super-hard exoskeleton, and ever since, it had been ‘ _ true love _ ’, Ava swore. Now Frankie helps Ava tend  _ The Sweetened Goblin _ , which was the result of them taking half of a condemned building and and remodeling it to the best of their ability. For a series of months the two lived on the floor in the restaurant before they were able to afford renting out an apartment above them.   _ The Sweetened Goblin _ struggled against trendier, hipper competition but it still curved a decent profit and was a local favorite, especially for smaller bands looking to debut.  Ava tugs Hanzo close and cups her hands to speak in his ear.

“I was wondering’ where you got too,” Ava said to him, her voice barely audible through the crowd’s din.  “I looked for you near  _ The Goblin _ , but you were gone! Say, where’s your friend? James---Jose---?”

“Javier,” Hanzo supplied, moving slightly so that Ava and Frankie unwound from him. They did so obediently, always respectful of his personal space.

“Friend? You have a friend? Hanzo, why did you not come into the back to say hello to me,” Frankie adds reproachfully. “Is he a  _ friend _ or a friend?” He adds slyly.

“A friend. Just a friend!”

“Iunno, he never brings  _ ‘just friends’ _ around,” Ava teases with a squeeze. 

“I also used to say that about my dear Ava,” Frankie nudges Hanzo in the side. He jolts as if remembering. “About sayin’,” Frankie bows low so that he can speak more directly in Hanzo’s ear, a more private outlet. “You good? The crowd and noise ain’t bothering’ you overmuch?” Frankie has always been one of the easiest to be forthcoming with regarding Hanzo’s mental illness.  “No, no. I am content, thank you.”

“Okay…  I was jus’ checkin’, I mean, Goblin’s locked up, but I coulda gave you the key an’ you coulda hid out there for a bit…,”  For some reason Hanzo actually feels sorry for not introducing the McCree and Frankie. 

“Thank you it is unnecessary, Frankie. Um… Right.  Javier! We were unfortunately separated, so I am looking for him now.”

“Well, he stands out,” Ava flashes a wink at Frankie and Hanzo. “We’ll be sure to snag ‘im if we see him. You want to stay with us, here?” 

Hanzo makes a movement to leave.  “No, I really want to find him soon. See you tomorrow?”

“Sure, and. Hey! Be safe, you don’t know what’s goin’ on around here,” Frankie grabs Hanzo’s wrist as he slips by just to make sure that Hanzo hears him.  _ You are ignorant to the danger you are in _ , Hanzo thinks, but he just nods and slips away. 

After he keeps going, he hits the middle of the crowd. The plan is for Hanzo to comb half and then go back the other way, and allow McCree prowl the other half and Lucio be a free floating and unpredictable agent. He is pressed between the hot sweaty bodies of humans and the almost painfully cold metal of omnics, catching his breath and rolling the plan in his head like a hot stone when a hand reaches through two bodies, grabs his wrist and holds tight. Heart in his throat, Hanzo goes to twist the wrist of the arm that grabbed him, palm already to strike lethally. But he recognizes the prosthetic fingers that overlap on his wrist.“Javier!”

McCree drags him to his position and leans down to talk to him.  Hanzo can smell Jesse’s spicy, citrus-y body wash that he  _ must _ have brought with him, because that is not  _ Hanzo _ ’ _ s _ . “Seen ‘em?” McCree yelled in an attempt to overcome the crowd.

“No. Have you seen--,” Lúcio was not allowed to give a signal that he knew McCree or Hanzo, partly to keep Hanzo’s cover and partly to retain his own independence in the crowd. Hanzo had not seen hide nor hair of him, and at this point in the mission, it was becoming a point of stress.

“I have,” McCree confirmed. “He’s fine, passed by him at the beginnin’. He was gettin’ close and personal with the policemen. Thought about givin’ him an ear about it but then I realized he was probably doin’ his job. I don’t know shit about his skillset.”

That was not his job but it was not  _ not _ his job. He just had to sigh deeply, hold it in, and let it go. Hanzo pressed the receiver in his ear. Instantly radio static simmered away to a secure channel. He distantly heard the feedback of the crowd from the other team’s earpieces. 

“This is ground, reporting in. Status check, roof?” 

“Nothing, no suspicious movements. No movements in the windows or either. Agitation near front, but nothing abnormal.”

“Copy.”

Hanzo stood up straight to survey the crowd. Various white signs blocked his complete view. There was some screaming from the front, but mostly it seemed to be in the form of a few talking down to the policemen and the echoing approval from those near them. If a police officer had drawn the weapon or harmed, he would know by now. The protest was going as well as a protest in London could go. No doubt by the end of the night there would be news articles about a few fist fights or perhaps pepper sprays, but nothing drastic seemed to brew in the melting pot of omnics and humans. The omnic with the megaphone stood up again, and the crowd’s chant changed from one to another.

 

##  **WE ARE WORKERS! NOT WEAPONS! WE WILL NOT ACCEPT YOUR OPPRESSION!**

 

Hanzo turned to look at the front again. He and a police officer made direct eye contact, something unspoken and unexplainable transferring between them as their eyes met. The crowd, still so vivacious and loud between them, seemed to fade into the background for a brief instant of Hanzo’s lost concentration. There was something there. All at once, the dragons in him began to scream.

 

That is when it all went to shit. 

 

Their com, previously quiet, suddenly jolted to life with disturbing static. McCree and Hanzo’s hands flew up to adjust at the same time, and Hanzo had no doubt that the other three team members comms started buzzing as well. No matter what Hanzo did to adjust the channel, the static did not increase or decrease in intensity. Then it just: stopped. Everything just stopped.

 

With sudden crystal-clear clarity, an unknown voice filtered into Hanzo’s ears. “Apagando las luces, losers.”

 

All the lights went out. All the phones went out. All the speakers went out. Even the megaphone stopped echoing. The entire protest was lit just by the moon and stars.  And then, in waves, the blinking lights of omnics around him dipped out.

And for one quiet, quiet moment, all was still. Then the screaming came.  

The first one that dropped was one next to Hanzo in a studded leather jacket, and in the absence of his body Hanzo saw a woman with purple eyes and a black hood. They made eye contact, and with a little wave the woman turned melted into the crowd. 

Hanzo turned on his heel to go after her, another falling omnic caught him on his shoulder. He caught their body and set them gently on the ground; he tapped the omnic’s cranium but there was no response. Forced to move on, Hanzo looked up and around for the woman, but she was gone.  The remedial street lights turned on, and a neon red flashing light illuminated London like light illuminated the pits of hell. 

  
  


People all around him were running in confusion. There had been no gunshots, no bomb, but suddenly over half of the crowd had thinned. Omnic bodies in front of him began dropping like flies, their power sources interrupted in some way-- or even ended. Screams broke out as humans struggled to keep their friends upright or drag them out of the way of a hysteric crowd; but too often were they unable to carry the titanium carcasses, so they were trapped under their bodies. Hanzo was dragged upright by McCree. He was twisted at a weird angle, grabbing him from his nonadjacent flesh hand. Why? Hanzo looked down to McCree’s prosthetic. The glowing blue light that had permanated it beforehand was darkened, and it did not move a finger. Would Hanzo’s-- no. His prosthetics were powered by his own kinetic energy from impact with the ground. Uninterruptible.  McCree, with one arm deadweight, began to pull him out of the thick of the crowd to the side. But Hanzo could hardly move; the street was so lined with metal obstacles that Hanzo had to lunge or jump over.

 

_ Where’s Ava? Where’s Frankie? Where’s Youssef? _

  
  


Hanzo knew that the power outage for omnics was only temporary. They had emergency power sources, just like the lights, but the crucial several minutes it took for them to reboot felt like a century. Hanzo stumbled over their leaden limbs at he fled to the edge of the crowd with McCree beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could swear he saw Youssef’s dark hair and Ava’s beanie dragging something to the side, but when he looked back, there was no one.

 

“What is going on?” He demanded.

 

“I have no fuckin’ clue! Everything’s out!” The remedial lights, like strobes, only served to highlight the fear on their faces.

 

_ Where’s Ava? Where’s Frankie? Where’s Youssef? _

 

Hanzo was the mission lead and he could not forget his objective; he was the  _ mission lead _ and  _ could not _ forget his objective. He pressed his fingers to the com in his ear, but all that came through was terrifying silence. No static. No broken up words. Nothing but quiet.

 

“McCree,” Hanzo said.  

“I know.”

They pushed back rushing throngs of people, many of them toting their limp omnic friend between them.  It took two or three to just drag one body, and there were dozens out there. It was hell. Hanzo could not see in front of him, much less around him, as he attempted to find good ground to survey the crowd. It was the most Hanzo could do just to not get run over. Hanzo attempted to stay as close to McCree as he could but it was near impossible to just keep track of his own direction. People just plowed through him like he was not there. It looked and felt like prey fleeing from unknown predator. 

_ Where’s Ava? Where’s Frankie? Where’s Youssef? _

 

Off to the east Hanzo picked up the green light of Lúcio’s equipment coloring an alley that lead to the parallel street a block over. People were flowing through there, and distantly it felt like sound was returning to the scene. The steady, but distant thrum of a bass. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go! Doubletime!”

He needed higher ground. He needed to see what was happening. He needed to find that woman. But he couldn’t do that if the crowd wouldn’t let him close enough to a wall to climb.

 

“McCree!” Hanzo turned to look behind him, and surprisingly, McCree was clutched tight to his jacket and not letting go. “You need to get me up there!” Hanzo pointed up at the nearest brownstone building. 

“ _ What _ ?” McCree either could not hear him, or not understand him, but in both cases there was  _ no time _ for that. Hanzo dragged McCree closer by the lapels, just to be sure. 

“I  _ said _ ,” he spit, mostly to his terra-cotta eyes. “Throw me!”

From there it seems that he understood; he crouched down onto one knee and painstakingly threaded his hands together. If McCree was worried Hanzo couldn’t tell. The black bandana made his face almost unreadable, and all Hanzo could see in his eyes was the red glow of the street lights. Hanzo stepped on his hand, kept his hands on his shoulders, counted to three to the beat of his heart; and then McCree threw him.

There was no thrill, no jolt. Just a practiced landing that pulled harshly at his arm socket and tore open his ungloved hands. But after that it was just gritted climbing. Once, Hanzo glanced down to see where McCree was, but he was gone with the crowd. Hanzo thinned his lip and just kept climbing, rapidly, a practiced sort of tearing of his hands and strain to his muscles.   When Hanzo popped his head over the edge, he was met face to face with the barrel of a sniper.

That is when the gunshots started. Glass behind him shattered. Like a chain, more began to fire all along the street, and the screaming stopped. All of it. 

Hanzo stopped just a heartbeat to take a breath. He had ducked just in time, but now he knew for sure there was at least one gun on site. He pushed himself up and over the edge in one movement. The sniper scrambled back from the edge. They were skinny and short, covered in black kevlar gear and had the helmet descriptive of Talon. They fell back onto their haunches as Hanzo approached, startled by his appearance. Their hand crept to a holster on their side, but Hanzo fell upon too quickly for that.

Stomp, pin, twist.

Just like that, Hanzo stood on the fractured remains of a dominant wrist with a throwing blade splayed across the building. “Who sent you!” He growled, positively ravenous. He yanked off the person’s headgear. Underneath, they were unassuming. Forgettable eyes and nose. Anyone you could see in the street. 

“No one,” they responded. Hanzo leaned his weight on the broken wrist, and the Talon operative screamed. The sound blended in with the chaos below.

“Who sent you!” Hanzo repeated.

“A shadow,” They responded, a cruel smile twisting their face. Hanzo moved to interrogate them further, but in a blink they raised their hand to their mouth and swallowed something. Within seconds, they were gone.  _ Cyanide _ . Very cold war. Hanzo could appreciate the dedication, at the least.

He went to go pick up their sniper rifle but found it locked. It needed a fingerprint to operate, and Hanzo was not going to drag a dead man around for a few measly bullets. He tore the thigh holster off of the agent, put it on himself,  dropped the gun over by the body and picked up the discarded knife. He tucked it securely into the holster. Hanzo dipped his head over the side.

_ Bang _ .

A human pushing below dropped like a stone in a pond. People paid the downed person no mind, but began to scatter. They less fled towards a specific place as they just all began  _ running _ \--, people ducked behind trashcans and pulled their friends in close to them, around corners. The man below him-- he was a young man, in his twenties. His t-shirt boasted of going to King’s Row University. Hanzo watched him bleed out his life from his throat, and he could do nothing. He was gone in seconds.

_ BANG! BANG! BANG! _

Three more shots from a pistol went off in rapid succession near him. The brick below Hanzo’s head suffered two shots that cleaned it clear of its color and left snowball-sized circular craters, and the third whizzed over his shoulder. An omnic woman, crouching just behind the trashcan near him, let out a warbling whimper and tucked her head in between her arms.

Hanzo pulled himself behind cover before the shooter below him could get ballsy and try again.  _ Fuck _ , he thought, heart in his throat.  _ Fuck _ .

_ Rat-a-tat-a-tatta! _

A car’s window shattered and the body shook.  _ Two shooters? _ Hanzo risked a peek over to look at the car. By now, the streets were eerily empty as people hid or lay dying on the ground.  No one dared to breathe. Hanzo searched the streets for any sign of movement, and he had a glimpse of silver in a darkened window across the street from him.

_ Rat-a-tat-a-tatta! _

Hanzo felt the cold touch of death as the stream of bullets missed him by mere milliseconds. He ducked behind cover, held his chest.  Hanzo was pinned unless he could do something to disable the semi-automatic shooter. The entire street was pinned unless he could do something. He presses his fingers to the comm device in his ear, praying to a higher power that there was some sort of connection.

Static louder than a waterfall filled his ear for a split second, and then silenced. 

“Team? Do you copy?” Hanzo whispered. 

A second.

Another. 

The omnic let out a quiet sob.

“I hear you, ground team!” Mei’s voice came in loud and clear, without a hint of static. Hanzo could hear distant yelling on her end.  Hanzo let out a sigh of relief.

“What is your status?” He asked, risking a peek over.  The shadow has not moved from where he was pinned.

“Uh, I don’t know if we have a codeword for  _ bad, _ ” Mei explained sheepishly. “My partner was disabled by the electromagnetic device that went off at site, but we were far enough away that he is incapacitated but unharmed.”

“My arm is unresponsive, and so is my build in communication system,” Genji added from Mei’s mic. “We are stuck, or at least I am. I can get myself back to rendezvous but little else.”

“So we can confirm that it is an electromagnetic pulse that happened?”

“That is the only thing I can think of, but it works unlike anything I have ever seen. Judging by the impact, if you had an old  _ nokia _ battery you would be out of service.”

“Is power back on?”

A pause. “For newer omnic types, prosthetics, and phones, yes. The older ones are taking a bit longer, and the lights... “ She trailed off. Hanzo knew enough about electromagnetic pulse to know what that meant. Hanzo hefted out a sigh, pinched his bridge piercing, turned it in it’s place. “Fine.  _ Fine, _ ” he snapped. “Radio silence from now on unless it’s  _ important _ . Whoever sent off the EMP is probably listening,” Hanzo risked a second-long peek. Still streets. A dark shadow in the window. He ducked.

_ RATTA! _

“And they have agents active on the main road,” Hanzo finishes grimly. “I am pinned but safe. Groundteam separated and half is unaccounted for after the initial panic. Crowd team I saw helping evacuation before the first shooting. Culprit is in the area: purple hair, purple eyes, hood.”

“That is not --,”

“I know it is not a lot to go off of, Genji!” His temper was a beast he did not control, but caged. “I know. Culprit is secondary. Focus on evac.”

Static burst into his comm. “What about evac?” Lúcio chimed in, breathing heavily. “Crowd team is back online and-- No, dude, that way, go that way!-- evacuating.  I routed who I could but this ain’t good, man.” Lúcio’s voice lowered to a whisper. “I’m half sure that half of these omnics bein’ carried ain’t gonna reboot, dude.” 

 

“Fuck.” Genji said. The sentiment was shared. 

 

 “It is not important at this moment,” Hanzo snapped. His heart hurt but he had to focus on now. 

_ Where’s Ava? Where’s Frankie? Where’s Youssef?  _ “I am pinned and  _ without  _ a weapon and there are at least two active shooters on main. One confirmed death, unknown casualties. People are hiding behind  _ fucking trash cans _ . We need to disable the shooters or rescue these people.” Hanzo crawled a few inches to the left and peeked up. This time, the shooter was more than ready, and shot several rounds into the place where Hanzo’s head was. He let a curse loose and crawled back towards the downed agent. The rifle was a standard model, silenced, deadly and efficient but unfortunately there were thousands of others just like it being mass produced somewhere. The fingerprint technology was costlier than most but had been a private investment by the United States of America’s National Rifle Association--  _ NRA  _ \-- to decrease gun violence.

As for success? Well.

Hanzo dragged the Talon agent over his shoulder and positioned the dead body oddly so that half of Hanzo’s hand could the gun, but the trigger finger was the Talon agent’s. It was a poor position to hold a gun on, much less take aim. Short of cutting off the Agent’s hand and toting it with him like some awkward sort of ammunition, it was the only way that would work. Going this far was enough. With a peek, Hanzo was able to aim and fire all before the other agent could realize that was happening. With a grunt, he discarded the Talon Operative’s body. With a hand, Hanzo reached up and pressed his hand to the comm.

“Crowd,”  he said through labored breaths, “Evacuate. Take a circular route, following the crowd evacuating. Meet back at the base.”

There was a breath in from Lucio’s side, like he might disagree or fight, but he didn’t. “Aight. Crowd out,” and Lúcio’s voice disappeared from their feed. 

“Same to roof team, ” McCree was missing and Hanzo regretted separating them. Dismissing the rest of the team was a good move, as there was very few ways to salvage the situation but it left  Hanzo woefully short handed; in both the  _ hurting _ and the  _ healing _ . McCree was capable with a gun but just as fleshy as any other human. Just as susceptible to some man prowling the streets of London to kill college students who were crouched on the floor with their heads hidden in their hands. Life was fleeting. He knew that. ( _ His father knew that _ ). 

Hanzo closed his eyes and pushed the anxiety down to deal with it another time.

He was second guessing his decision to arrive unarmed ( _ second guessing being appointed leader, second guessing joining Overwatch, second guessing trying) _ , but the chances of being recognized was high enough that they could not be caught with weapons. They were supposed to find and disable the target; but the target had not been who or what he had expected. He expected an omnic. He expected a bomb. He expected anything except a full frontal assault. He was a fool, an utter fucking fool for not seeing through the guise, and now it was like shooting fish in a barrel and there was little to do about it. Innocent people had died tonight--  _ were _ going to die, and he was sitting still like deadweight. It was much easier to be on the other side of this. To be the one with the semi automatic, shooting out the window, not caring if your team lived or died as long as you did what you were told.

 

But fuck it. Hanzo hadn’t joined Overwatch for easy. 

 

Hanzo went to the other side of the building and looked down to the alley between the building and the next. The gap was about ten feet, which would take quite a bit of a jump in order to make the other side. Right around here is where Hanzo last saw McCree, or least the general vicinity. It led out onto the parallel street, which could then loop around if one wanted to approach from the street that led adjacent to the state building. Surprisingly, there was one uniformed man lying prone against the wall, neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

 

Hanzo could not make out the details of his suit, so he jumped down from the building.  _ Thump _ .

 

The person downed looked of the average age, a man in his mid thirties. Like Hanzo. He had the padding of a police officer in riot gear, but Hanzo had not seen him pass by and he was missing both his badge and his shield. There was no blood or anything like that on the floor or the bricks. His neck was caved in like a cardboard tube on one side from excessive force, and there as only one known variable that could do that. McCree had disabled this man, but why? 

Hanzo felt up and down the body of the police officer. There were three holsters on his hip, one for a non lethal stun gun meant for human and omnic use, and then two pulse pistols. All three were empty. His belt was similarly devoid of any ammunitions. Weaponless, badgeless, and separated from his unit-- this felt wrong. This felt wrong in a familiar way and Hanzo didn’t like it. 

He looked up and down the alley. McCree was nowhere to be found. Hanzo doubted that he was in any mortal danger, but McCree seemed to have figured out something that he didn’t and he had not reported in. . Frustrating. He was a sitting duck here.

A glass bottle flew past his head and hit the brick wall to his side. Hanzo whirled, to small blade he took from the other talon agent in his hand. No one behind him. Beside him. Both ends of the alley were empty. Sirens wailed in the distance, but at this point Hanzo wasn’t sure if he could trust the police. 

And then he looked up.

Crouched on the roof of the brick building, the small and distant silhouette of McCree waved. He seemed to be talking but Hanzo couldn’t hear it. The building was a residential with a fire escape, at least five stories tall. The iron stairs leading to the roof were rusted and subpar but otherwise trust worthy enough, so Hanzo made a move to scale it. But McCree started gesturing and waving wildly, as if to signal something, so Hanzo paused with one metal leg on the stair. McCree was still talking (uselessly), huge wide gestures that were meant to mean something. Hanzo meaningfully made a motion to his comm, and turned on his own while he was at it. Seconds later McCree's comms buzzed to life.

“Didn’t know they were back on, thought they were busted,” McCree said apologetically. “What is the situation?”

“Roof and Crowd are evacuating with my permission. There were two active shooters. Three, if you count the man you disabled.”

“Three?” Snort. “I counted five from up here. You got your dude on the other roof, the man down there, the window, and then another two I got comin’ outta buildings or settin’ up camp. I ain’t sure about others, but altogether with the unknown we spotted that makes six, and that right there, parter, is enough to make it Blackwatch playbook.”

“What is that? Nevermind, do not tell me. Get down here first.” 

 

McCree cast a look at the rusted stairs. 

He did not trust those.

“Whatever you say,” He still said anyway, and slowly, he climbed down them.  Once he hit the bottom, Hanzo turned off his own communicator and leaned against the wall to catch a breath he feels like he never caught. “Blackwatch playbook,” Hanzo repeated with a roll of his fingers. “Explain that. Ten words or less.”

“Maybe twenty?”

“Fine.  Go.”

“Blackwatch. Secret special ops. I was innit, know how they do things, now I see them doin’ things the way I used too.” 

As Hanzo turned this all over in his head, McCree’s lobbed a pistol at him. Hanzo caught it, but only barely, and with a certain kind of unrefined grace he did not want people to see. “That was incredibly dangerous, you buffoon!” 

McCree let out a laugh. “Safety’s on. Cute huff.” 

“Begone.”

Hanzo lifted the gun to look at it. Standard issue pulse pistol. Per shot it was weaker than most Hanzo used but it was accurate in comparison to shotguns and other high-impact weapons. The clip size was not too poor either. This would do. He wished he had his bow, or perhaps even something similar to McCree’s peacekeeper (which was half as dangerous as the devil and twice as mean), but Hanzo was a good shot.

He did not miss. 

Hanzo turned off the safety and checked to see if the gun was loaded. It was. 10 shots per clip. No extra clips on his person (McCree might not have any either). He did not have many shots to waste. 

Hanzo and McCree went off into the main street and began walking north, back towards site one and where they had last seen the purple-eyed woman before they were swept up in the panic.  The remaining survivors scrambled to their feet and bolted for it. It was depressingly few, only a handful of people that he could see that immediately began to run south. They were already at the southernmost part of the city, but it would too dangerous to take the tube or to attempt to go back through the protest scene. Hanzo’s feet felt like lead as he dragged out to stand in the middle of road. The blood from the college student who was the first down stained the brick black, and tracked through his blood was the footprints of terrified people running. No one paid any attention to his body. They are ignored it, too afraid to becoming like him. 

He was a child. 

He did not deserve to die like this.

_ Where was Ava? Where was Frankie? Where was Youssef? _

Hanzo pressed his hand to his forehead and sighed. He could not do this in the middle of a mission. Ten bullets to his name, the two of them set out heading north. 

They had gone three or four blocks from the protest location. As he trailed closer to the original point of crisis, the bodies began to pile up. Many were just omnics who were unconscious (or dead) from the electromagnetic pulse. The minority were definitely the humans splayed on the street, all shot in the back as if running. And the shots were clear and perfect; some had suffered, but only for minutes. Deadly aim punctured through their heads or chests, occasionally a few inches off from the heart. But they were still dead. If they could have been saved, they would have needed medical attention immediately. But despite the sirens, the police and the ambulance had not appeared yet. Whatever was causing them to hesitate had cost.

The courthouse was rising in the distance, with clean white steps studded with abandoned protest signed. There was no police line now, but there was equipment and riot shields abandoned haphazardly as if they had left in a hurry. Suspicious. The sense of foreboding in Hanzo’s chest rose-- something about this was terribly, terribly wrong. Things were not adding up in the ways it should have. Where were the police? Where was the backups? Why were there no survivors? Why had each shot been a killing shot, instead of a grazing shot as it would be if they were just haphazardly aiming? 

_ Where is Ava? Where is Frankie? Where is Youssef? _

There was a figure standing in front of the steps, back to Hanzo and Mccree. They wore a black hood that hid the back of their head and stood, hip popped, one hand on their side, and the other clicking away at a holographic purple display. Hanzo dodged behind a post office box and McCree went the opposite direction to crouch behind a bench. 

“Mm?  _ No eres divertido cuando te preocupas _ , dude, I got this!”  _ Pop _ . She snapped her gum in irritated and let out a huff. The feedback from her mic was so loud that Hanzo could hear the other person on the side yelling. Just to prove the volume, the hacker took the earpiece out and held it away.  “Mm. Mm. Yes. Yes. Yup. Yeah, I did that. Did that too. Yep! I am not a kid, you know,” The woman had a spanish accent. She seemed undisturbed by death, idly kicking an omnic that laid prone next to her. “You do not need to baby me like I was one of the rats you picked off the streets.” Pause. “ _ Oh, _ that must be it. You are missing your wittle babey-wabey!” 

 

The person on the other end did not sound amused. 

 

The hacker let out a cackling laugh. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You wouldn’t. Later!” She turns her full attention to the display. 

McCree and Hanzo extended a singular look. McCree crept around the bench to the left side, his pulse pistol small and unfamiliar to his image. Despite all conceptions about him, he was quiet. Hanzo rolled out of place into the middle of the road; a straight shot, he extended the gun in front of him, lining the barrel up with her hoodie head. She did nothing, said nothing, just hummed an old song and tapped her foot to the beat.  Hanzo turned off the safety with a small  _ click _ . She turned her head like she heard something, tilted it just enough for hanzo to see the beginning of a shaved head,  and Hanzo stopped dead. 

Quiet.

She returned to her work and to her humming.

( _ Inhale. Shoot between heartbeats _ ). 

She blinked out of existence.

Hanzo lowered his gun but kept his finger on the trigger. Where did she go? He crept out of his hiding place and swiveled his gun back and forth, looking for some sort of hint of her existence. Nothing. McCree let out a curse from his position. “For fucks sake,” he said.

“I share your sentiment.” Hanzo stood to his full height. Even her projected display was gone. 

“Looking for me?” A sinister, amused voice said in his ear; McCree whirled on the spot and fired off a round in the direction of the voice, but it harmlessly hit the mailbox. Hanzo whirled on the spot, but there was no one behind him

“Who is there? Show yourself!” He demanded. McCree made quicktime to stride over to his side and take up the empty position on his back, mumbling about what  _ bullshit _ it was. 

The woman fizzled into existence on a bench to the side of Hanzo, right where McCree used to be.  “Ha. What is this, some sort of circus?” She taunted cruelly.

Hanzo whirled to face her. 

Now that she was facing them, Hanzo could see she was a latinx woman with dark eyebrows and a half-shaved head. Strange electrical lines lead from the side of her head down into her hoodie, and they pulsed rhythmically with violet electricity. Her nails were long and pointed, and even had electrical leylines all throughout it. When she narrowed her eyes at them, her beauty mark crinkled.

The woman dragged one long purple finger over her lip as she looked Hanzo up and down, assessing him, looking simultaneously unimpressed and disappointed. “Aren’t you too old for the rebellious phase?” She turned her eyes to McCree. “And the hobo look went out of style decades ago, chico.”

Hanzo ignored her. “Who are you?” He demanded. He crept closer, inching slightly to the left to funnel her out. McCree raised his gun, one handed, and raised his head in a challenging fashion. “No funny business, either,” he growled. “We got you outnumbered an’ outclassed. We know you work for Talon, now just cough up some coordinates an’ it won’t hurt too bad.”

 

“Who am I?” She leaned back and flipped her hair with the back of one manicured hand. She barely even looked at McCree.“Oh, you know.  _ Une Sombra _ . No one really important. But I know who you are, Joel.” McCree’s shoulders grew in outrage, but she ignored him and dropped her eyes to Hanzo’s. He did not like it. “And you, Hanzo Shimada. ” She batted the air like she was batting away an insignificant thought. “You would not  _ believe _ the things I know about you.”

Hanzo’s finger tightened on the grip, mouth set in a grim, straight line. His life was equal parts an open book and a locked chest; it just depended on which  _ Hanzo Shimada _ she knew. The assassin, or the first born son? “Surrender or die,” he snarled. McCree shot him a surprised look.

“So scary! If Widowmaker were here, your pretty little head would be blown to bits in that alley.”

“So she ain’t here?” McCree ventured.  _ Une Sombra _ was clearly in charge of this operation in some way or fashion. Hanzo had to bide time and wait for her to talk herself into distraction and disable her then.

“Whoopsies!”  _ Une Sombra _ stood up and brushed off her tights. “Twenty questions over? I can go now? I mean, listen, handsome, this has been very nice, but I have to blast, yes? I’ll be seeing you.” She waved her fingers and disappeared, just like that.

Hanzo shot twice, once in the place where she had been and another just to the right, but she was already gone. There was only the wind and the sirens and the sound of pounding boots-- boots?  _ The police _ . Hanzo grabs McCree by the wrist and quickly darts into the alley. There’s a brief panicked moment when the fire escape is not close enough to the ground for McCree to reach, but that is solved when Hanzo picks the muscular man up by holding tightly under his behind and lifting. From  there McCree can climb up on his own, and Hanzo is free to free climb up the wall himself. He slams his sharp toed shoes into the stone work and hauls himself up and up. The brick is wet, and softer for the night dew but he is able to haul himself up on the rooftop. He lays, panting for breath on the roof, staring at the stars and remembering black blood on historic brick and purple nails with sharpened tips, and then McCree is standing over him. 

“We need to rendezvous at the base,” he says, but he sits down next to Hanzo. After only a second, with a huff, he falls onto his back and takes a deep breath; steeples his hands on his chest, closes his eyes and breathes in deeper. There is gash above his brow that Hanzo did not notice before, and his red blood, lit like the remedial lights, leaks into his hooded eye. Hanzo reaches over with one hand and absent-mindedly wipes it away. “We do,” he agrees. “But let us wait until it is darker. The police are here.”

McCree reaches up to grab Hanzo’s hand. He squeezes his raw fingers, wet with his blood and Hanzo’s. “Whatever you say,” he says.

And they wait.

 


	4. Thunder, Lightning

It is nearly 3 am when Hanzo and McCree finally reach the entrance to Hanzo’s apartment building. 

 

It would have been much quicker if they had their subway card, but the last of the money was used by the rest of the team when they returned. And even if Hanzo had the money for a cab, Uber or Lyft, there were none running. They were all smart enough to stay home.

 

So Hanzo and unfortunate McCree were resigned to walk. 

 

Halfway through their miserable little trek, it started to pour. Not a light drizzle that merely dusted the streets, but a deep and heavy rain that suffocated the air from the world. Visibility was low. It was hard to see the details of the buildings he was passing, much less far in front of him. McCree was not even a meter in front of him and his outline was just a few fuzzy recollections of color, dampened by the downpour. The dismal weather made Hanzo want to stop. It made him want to sit down on the curb and just  _ forget _ , but Hanzo had no choice but to walk through it. 

 

What was left of his legs hurt. His head ached from the residual sounds of gunshots, still ricocheting in his brain. Scrapes and gashes on his arms throbbed as a reminder of his absolutely  _ shit _ mission, and it seemed the more he walked the less distance he went. Empty footsteps fell in front of each other. McCree might have tried to talk to him, but Hanzo cannot tell clearly; he was not in the mood to talk, and McCree must have respected that.

It took hours to amble into his shitty little abode in the shittiest, most crime ridden part of London. Even the bottom feeding drug dealers and muggers were inside tonight, hiding from the violence by the courthouse. The pair were unbothered the entire way in, even when Hanzo pulled them through an alley shortcut.

 

No one. It was almost like London had died that night, too.

 

The stuffy, dim lighting of his apartment building entrance was almost welcome. The yellowed light of the parlor flickered in greeting, and Hanzo made a sub-standard effort to wipe his prosthetics dry on the muddy  _ Welcome! _ rag. McCree made a better effort, as he actually had feet, so Hanzo continued ahead. The stairs squeaked and squawked as Hanzo begun to climb all three flights of them, McCree a flight behind. The wet fabric of his pants had rubbed the inside of his thighs raw. He was so cold, and wet, overly miserable, he could do little but hyperfocus on it; hyperfocus on the raw welts on his inner thighs, the cold pebbling of his lower back, the water dripping from his hair down his neck.

 

_ CRUNCH _ .

 

The rotten stairs leading to his apartment finally gave. Hanzo’s foot had crashed through it completely, all the way to the cheap base; he looked down at it impassively. If he had actual feet that would have hurt; the edges where he broke through were jagged and sharp.

 

McCree let out a whistle behind him. “Woo _ wee _ , damn, there it goes. Shit.  You good?” His hand, somehow still like a heater, fell on Hanzo’s shoulder.

He did not let himself savor the warmth. “I have prosthetic legs,” he answered dully. In the morning he would email his landlord, but the hot-tempered bum probably would try to make Hanzo pay for it instead of admitting he had rotted stairs. So Hanzo just stepped out of it, shuffled to his door, and unlocked it with trembling cold hands.

 

The entire mission company set in his living room. All their chatter stopped immediately at his entrance. “Someone,” Hanzo said dully. “Used the last of my subway money.”

 

No one answered. 

 

Hanzo squelched into his room. He changed his pants and his shirt, just so that he wouldn’t feel continually so wet. His hair being dry would help with that, but the idea of heading into his bathroom to grab a towel seemed too much work. He would air dry eventually. 

He exited the room. The low murmurs stopped as everyone turned to look at him, all of them just all of them staring wide-eyed at him. The 10 o'clock emergency news, recorded and played back, droned on in the background, spewing nonsense about ‘suspected terrorist omnic units’, the news lady looking terrified as she described an event she knew little about. More buzzwords meant to scare the populace seemed to leak, poisonous, out of the TV, and Hanzo slammed the power button on his way past.

“ _ Are you… okay, Hanzo? _ ” Genji ventured in Japanese, his voice soft, like he was approaching a wounded animal

 

“ _ Why would I not be? _ ” Hanzo snapped. He stopped and rubbed his temples. He hadn’t meant to lose his temper. “ _ I am fine. Sorry. Let me just…,”  _ He took a deep breath in, held his breath, and let it go. Try again. “ _ I am fine. Thank you. _ ” He pulled a book off his couchside table and slid open the balcony door. “I need some time alone.”

 

Hanzo’s apartment was composed of one small bedroom hardly large enough for drawers and a twin bed, a small bathroom, a shotgun kitchen and a living room. He also had a balcony that could only fit a chair and a side table. Each apartment in his building block was built more or less the same, so the balcony above his blocked the rain; and so did the balcony above that, and so on and so on, so it was somewhat dry aside from the pervasive dampness that  _ was _ London. His view was not fantastic either. It looked out into a blurry landscape with no real visibility of dim lights in the distance. When it was clearer, Hanzo saw over the building across the street to gaze at the roofs of liquor and smoke shops.

 

McCree was already out there, smoking a pack of shitty stale cigarettes like he was a chimney. He didn’t even turn to look at Hanzo’s entrance, his eyes far off in the middle distance, serious brow lowered as he burned his way through his own cancer stick. 

 

Fuck. Hanzo could feel that emotion.

 

Hanzo picked up the cigarette packet and left his book there instead. He pulled one out of the package; it was wet from the leftover humidity, but he could not bring himself to give a single damn. He hardly wanted it for the taste. Using McCree’s discarded lighter, he lit it quickly and began huffing in some sort of hurried gesture that,  _ what _ ?--- would make him feel less guilty about his failure? Relieve the stress building on his chest?  Whatever shallow reason, just the mere act of rebellion felt nice. Dr. Phao would not approve, nor would Genji, and neither would his Father. Hanzo leaned his forehead against the wrought iron of the railing, arms out to feel the rain on his hands. 

“Fuck,” he said.

 

McCree didn’t say anything to that, but he flicked the ash off his cigarette and looked over at him. His hat was off and his hair was slicked back from the rain, soaked and shiny in the light. He looked tired. One eye was swollen purple and red and every color that matched so poorly with his skin, paired with a split brow dirting his forehead with blood. Hanzo raised his head to look at him fully.

 

“Hey,” McCree said.    
  


“Hey.”

 

McCree straightened out and made a motion to put out his cigarette. “Y’wanna be alone?”

 

Hanzo shrugged and put his head back on the iron. 

 

“Right.” McCree sat in the chair; a crappy plastic lawn chair Hanzo found by the dumpster. McCree idly looked around, cigarette barely hanging on at his lip. His eyes landed on Hanzo’s abandoned book, and he curiously picked it up to rifle through it. “Seventy-seven Dream Songs,” His voice was sore, deep and tired. “By John Berryman. From--,” McCree let out a whistle. “Way back when, nineteen-sixty-fuckin’-four.” He continued to rifle through the pages until he came to first page.

 

Hanzo had poured over that poem extensively like he poured over the book he had in Gibraltar. The second to last stanza was circled three times in red, he knew, and that was what McCree began to read. 

 

“--All the world like a woolen lover   
once did seem on Henry’s side.   
Then came a departure.   
Thereafter nothing fell out as it might or ought.   
I don’t see how Henry, pried    
open for all the world to see, survived.” 

 

McCree hummed, turning it over in his head. “Alright,” and he moved on to the next stanza.

 

“What he has---”

 

“His father killed himself,” Hanzo interrupted McCree’s half-hearted reading, surprising even himself. 

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Berryman’s father,” Hanzo turned his head so that his cheek was pressing into the twisted metal of the fence, and he could look McCree in the eyes. “He killed himself. So ‘Henry’ represents Berryman-- or perhaps his father? It is some weird… combination of all these personalities and traits into one person, and one ‘anti-person’ named Mr. Bones. His only friend. His constant companion.” Hanzo turns his chin onto the bars and took another drag of the cigarette. “Berryman kills himself later on, when he is in his fifties. About my age.” He could hear McCree’s sharp inhale of shock, or maybe realization, or maybe just discomfort with the topic. He came to his bedside when Hanzo was sick, he offered him a book, but that does not mean that he needed to hear such pathetic things from the archer. But Hanzo could not stop the words even if he tried.  “I do not know why I own a piece of literature so wrought with misery when I came to this place seeking to escape the same thing.”

 

McCree shuffled back into the book, skimming the preface and recognition page, then he says: “Well, damn. When you provide background like that, I imagine this does come across awful miserable. Originally I thought that it was supposed to be hopeful, not sad.”

 

“That’s the thing about poetry,” Hanzo took a drag that nearly burned out the entirety of the stale marlboro. “It is all secretly miserable.”

 

“Includin’ one certain Shimada?”

 

Hanzo exhaled into the night fog. “That is my secret, McCree. I am always miserable.”  Despite the humor of his statement, the joke falls flat. A few uncomfortable moments pass between the pair of ex special operation agents. McCree clears his throat and takes another chance.

 

“I’m real sorry about the way the mission went, Hanzo.”

 

“Why apologize? It was my own chronic lack of ability that led to this.  You did well, McCree. As well as anyone could have asked.” Hanzo plucked the cigarette out of his mouth. It was down to just a little bit before the butt of it. He flicked it around in his fingers, intended to stub it out on the railing, but then his eyes caught the pale skin of his wrist. Before he could realize what he was doing, he was lowering the lit end of the cigarette towards himself.

 

McCree’s prosthetic arm gripped Hanzo’s wrist tightly. Hanzo stopped just centimeters from his first metallic digit, and looked up to see the thin-lipped, determined look on McCree’s face. Defeated, Hanzo shrugged and went ahead and stubbed it out on McCree’s arm. His grip only tightened.

 

“Do you feel pain in that hand?” Hanzo asked dully.

 

McCree ignored his question. “You’re bein’ exceedingly rough on yourself. How were we supposed to know the police were crooked, or-- or that there was a wild card on the field? We can’t guess that shit. We’re a team of five doin’ shit a team of twenty would struggle to do, an’ we’re doin’ pretty spectacular for bein’ so shit out of luck. We took out  _ three _ separate Talon Operatives unarmed. We saved lives today, y’know?”

 

A backdraft is when a fire, exposed to a sudden fierce breeze, explodes in a tempestuous second wind. McCree is the wind. Hanzo is the fire.  And like fire, it burns upwards first. Hanzo could feel his neck and cheeks heating with anger before he could verbalize the sudden frustration.

 

He threw his wet, weak little cigarette to the winds. 

 

“And for every life we saved, another died. Every minute of preparation was wasted the moment I failed my mission objective. I was supposed to de-escalate any potential situation, protect the protesters, and walk out with minimal shed blood. Instead--- what is the casualty count now?”

 

“Sixteen,” McCree answered softly. “And I don’t think they’re countin’ the omnics, but--,”

 

Hanzo lifted up his free hand to cut him off. “Sixteen people are dead and innumerable omnics are injured due to my own  _ miserable _ ,  _ incompetent _ leadership abilities, and we do not even have a singular thing to show for it! _ ” _ Hanzo slammed his hand onto the fencing. It moaned and wriggled forebodingly, as if Hanzo could rattle it right out of it’s screws, so Hanzo stopped. He would like to rattle it more but his landlord would absolutely kill him if he broke his entire balcony somehow. And that would be just Hanzo’s luck.

 

There was a split second of silence. Hanzo turned back to look at McCree to see him staring fervently at him, like Hanzo was a puzzle he could figure out if he just unfocused his eyes just enough. The long corduroy column of McCree’s neck bobbed with a thick swallow.

 

Desperate for an answer, feeling the horrifying sting of tears, Hanzo demands, “What is all this death for?” Hanzo bites his lip hard enough that he feels blood and turns back towards the emotionless, rainy London night. 

 

“What good does it do?” He screams into the night. 

 

The night does not answer him, but the sky does. A lightning strike, like a rip in the velvet of the clouds, splits the horizon and lights the streets. In that brief moment, McCree lets go of Hanzo’s wrist and uses both of his calloused hands to turn him to face him. He’s looking intense, and serious, and heartbroken, all in just two eyes and one straight nose and thin mouth. His thumb brushes the hair out of Hanzo’s face, and Hanzo can’t tell if the water that drips off his chin is the rain or the tears.

 

“I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t know what it’s for, an’ I don’t know if there’s a god up there greetin’ everyone who passes, an’ I don’t know if it does any good. Only thin’ death has been to me is a way to end the sufferin’ or a way to make the sufferin’ hurt real bad before it all ends-- and none of those people deserved either. Call me naive or foolish or even stupid if you gotta, that’s fine, but I ain’t sure if I believe that everythin’ else was miserableness and sufferin’ though.” Jesse stroked Hanzo’s cheekbones, interrupting a streak of water from sliding down his face. “Okay? Maybe we fucked up, maybe we couldn’t do nothin’ about nothin’, but we ain’t gonna let it happen again, an’ I’m willin’ to cross hell n’ back tryin’ to prove it to ya, Hanzo. I am awful tired of seein’ y’so miserable.”

 

And before Hanzo could process what was happening, he was leaning into McCree. His chest was wide, and comfortable enough to lean on, and when he looked up again McCree was leaning closer too. His eyes were like the wildfire coursing through Australia, nuclear and rusted. Hanzo let his eyes shut, and before he could yank the reign he held so tightly around his own neck, he leaned into McCree’s kiss.

 

Thunder.

 

He tasted like the stale cigarettes they were sharing, like the polluted rainwater he must have been drinking, maybe a little like blood and coffee. His lips were chapped and his beard scratchy.

 

Lightning.

 

Hanzo didn’t care. McCree towered over him easily, and Hanzo found himself pressed against the wet bars of the balcony as McCree pushed back into him possessively. His hands slid down from his cheeks to his arms, his sides, and his hot-blooded flesh hand drifted down to squeeze at his ass. Whenever they broke for a quick breath, it was McCree who pressed back in, eager and hungry for more. 

 

Hanzo breathed his name in between kisses, the name he knew: “McCree,” he said, still lip on lip. “Jesse,” the cowboy replied. “Call me Jesse, Hanzo, please?”

 

“Jesse,” Hanzo repeated obediently.

 

Jesse made a sound like stiff muscles relaxing and leaned in. “Keep sayin’ my name like that an’ I’m yours,” he said, and then he pressed another kiss against Hanzo’s lips, surging with hands exploring more demandingly, sliding into his shirt to explore Hanzo’s scarred hips. The railing creaked omniously.

 

“Jesse,” Hanzo said.

 

“What am I thinkin’? Already yours,” Jesse answered, although Hanzo queried no such question. Hanzo made a move to push against Jesse and the railing squeaked again. Hanzo’s hands, stationary on Jesse’s sides, moved up and over his pecks to his neck. Jesse made an interested sound, but it was too little too late as Hanzo was already gripping his collar tight enough to choke and spinning the two around.

 

Jesse, shocked but not entirely unpersuaded-- the crazy man-- only let himself be manhandled. But Hanzo’s aim was not to stop them to punish Jesse at all, just to plunk himself into the wet plastic chair and resume what he was doing with more confidence in his safety. Jesse let out a dark chuckle and followed his lead, climbing into Hanzo’s lap one thigh at a time. It was amazing hat they could both fit in the cheap chair, considering they were two muscular men of no insignificant weight, but the chair nary whined nor threatened a thing as they settled in. Jesse threaded his hands through Hanzo’s wet hair and pulled his head back gently, just to give the perfect angle to lean in at. . .

 

“I really hope I am not interrupting anything,” a voice said from the door, and Hanzo and Jesse nearly broke their necks turning to look. It was Genji, in loose fitting sweatpants a D.VA merch shirt that read: ‘ _ Think you can keep up with me _ ?’ Jesse scrambled to climb off of Hanzo, but his thighs were stuck in the chair.

 

“You ain’t! You ain’t!” He assured, all while practically stuck to Hanzo’s lap. Hanzo, knowing full well he was past the point of recovery, simply put his head in his hands.

 

And that is when the chair broke.

…

 

Twenty minutes later, Jesse and Hanzo were separated as Hanzo wanted to bathe and Jesse had knocked his head against the brick of the building in the fall and now needed assistance. There was the general racket outside the bathroom even though it was nearing four-thirty in the morning. Most of it came from Genji and McCree bickering. They were not discussing the scene that Genji walked in, luckily, but instead a crusading prosecution of Genji calling him ‘a thunderthighed thickhead’ and McCree doing his very best to defend himself.

 

Though McCree did have very nice thighs. The right mix of muscular and fatty, hairy and comfortable, and soft and warm to the touch, but still crisscrossed with scars and bulges that told of a life lived. 

 

Hanzo stopped that line of thought before he could get too into it.

Having abandoned the idea of sleeping for the night, Hanzo told a brief cold shower to wash off the worst of the grime and then settling down in a steaming bath. He dropped in some cheap bath fizzy he got from Ava, tied up his hair in a hairband, and settled down. He took exception to his rule of ‘smoking in the house’ by lighting up a cigarillo McCree had given him.  It wasn’t of exceptionally poor make, but not of an exceptionally good make either. It was heady and spiced, and was enough to take Hanzo’s mind off the several events of the night. He had _Seventy-seven_ _Dreamsongs_ propped open in front of him and read it with half-focus as he let his mind wander in other directions.

 

The book was some sort of American thing; truthfully Hanzo had barely really read much of it. He read the back, googled a little about the author, and read the first three or so poems. All he remembers is having an ten extra dollars that Ava had given him after he insisted that  _ no _ , he really  _ did not _ want a coffee (and it was not that he could not afford onet), it raining once again, and being in an especially bitter mood. The therapy lesson earlier in the day hadn’t gone well, and Hanzo ended up storming out in some sort of irritation and wandering into some run down book shop.

 

Why had the session gone bad? Hanzo had expressed irritation with the slowness of his mission, and the dullness of it, and went on to speak about why he believed another person was better for the job. Dr. Phao had recently adopted a new therapy technique: whenever a patient would voice deceprecative thoughts, she would calmly shoot them with a nerf gun.

He had gotten shot half a dozen times, and subsequently lost his temper and said some things he would be ashamed to repeat. His therapist’s reaction: measured and cold, she had dismissed him out of hand.

 

He did not like that, and told her so, and she shot back with: people treated Hanzo the way they did simply because he deserved it.

 

And sure, he knew that but, he absolutely didn’t want to hear it from his therapist. In fact his therapist seemed the last person to tell him point blank that he was sort of a dick.

 

He wasn’t like he was trying to be. 

 

Any time that his words came out harsh, there didn’t seem to be a line between what he bitterly thought of himself and what he bitterly wished he could control about the outward world. He recognized that when overstimulated, in a depressive episode, or a manic episode,  his emotions often manifested as some sort of blow up or snippy comment. Any attempts to be ‘civil’ were short lived, usually, as simply functioning took up huge reserves of his energy.

 

In short: it was easier to tell someone to ‘leave your presence’ rather than to ‘have a goodnight, please.’

 

It wasn’t good that he fell upon such habits, but at the same part it was a cycle he had a hard time breaking until he started his Clozaril and started to sleep more. He was working on it. He was. But the first step in the process started with someone telling him point blank that it wasn’t acceptable. 

 

Which he didn’t take well.

 

So steaming in a vat of anger and a little bit of self-loathing, glowering at  _ more _ rain, he grabbed some random poetry book he had only really half-looked over and bought it with the last of his money. He stomped home with it hidden in his jacket. He was half-thinking about trying to read it the evening that the mission was announced. 

 

He was regretting buying it now. He was halfway through some of the poems, and without looking deeper into it this man was  _ absolutely foul. _ Determined in stewing in his own miserable existence, self-pitying, Berryman was steeped in ministrelsy and generally just an alcoholic scrooge clinging to the last of his coping mechanisms. That wasn’t mentioning the times that  _ Henry _ himself appeared in blackface.

 

Hanzo has to read that one twice. Blackface.

 

Some minutes before sunrise, the sky was steadily turning violet and Hanzo grew tired of that too. He discarded the book over the edge of the tub and sunk lower into the bath water.

 

He thought briefly about drowning himself. He thought briefly about a lackluster funeral. He thought briefly about his last moments _.  It’s thinking of love, / it’s thinking of stabbing us to death/ and leaving our bodies in a dumpster. _

 

Richard Siken. Little Beast. A good read. A bittersweet one, it reminds him: _I will be gentle with myself._ _I am trying_.

 

Not to say he was not irritated with himself. By all accounts he was-- ruined a mission, watched people die, scared off the rest of the team and ruined his carefully maintained sleep schedule. He fell asleep at ten every night and woke up at six everyday. That was the rules. He knows because he made them. Getting a decent amount of sleep every night, at the same time, was the basis of treatment for personality disorders. And it worked. Even if it took hours of tossing and turning or sleep meds or three cups of tea, he tried and mostly succeeded every night. It was one of the hardest things he’s done. It was a success. 

 

And he did not succeed this time. Which is a huge set back and really fucking frustrating.

 

_ Really fucking frustrating. _

 

He breathed in, and breathed out everything that was  _ really fucking frustrating him _ . He slid out of the bath and dressed himself in a towel. After draining the tub, taking his meds for the day, and brushing his teeth, he tip-toed out into the main room. 

 

Lúcio, Mei and McCree were snoozing in the living room. Mei and Lúcio shared the couch, with their heads on opposite sides and their legs entangled. McCree took up the entirety of the armchair again. Lúcio and Mei did not move an inch as Hanzo slid open the door and crept inside, and neither did McCree (who was snoring like a bear). Swallowing a fond smile, Hanzo crept pasat him to get his nightly tea. He was prepared to catch some sleep.

Last night Hanzo left his phone on the kitchen counter to charge. It was still off from when he left it. Hanzo idly leaned on the table and thumbed it on. The screen briefly displayed the phone logo and then changed to his lock screen. Notifications immediately began to flood his screen. Some were from the various news sites he followed, covering on the ‘London Shooting’, with varying death counts. Then after that the notifications from his friends also began to show up.

 

**Missed call from Ava Marshall.**

 

**Missed call from Ava Marshall.**

 

**Missed call from Ava Marshall.**

 

**Missed call from Youssef Eliyahi,**

 

**Missed call from Youssef Eliyahi.**

 

**Ava (22:33): hanzo! answer me, you sulky bastard!!! me +  frankie got separated by the EMP, and it dropped him for a bit but luckily youssef, one of his buddies and i were able to drag him back inside the goblin. a few people took refuge in here, but i couldnt find you :((((. Youssef made me hide before i could look more thoroughly and im fine now but i really wish you would answer.**

**Ava (22:46): please.**

**Ava (22:46): i’m worried.**

**Ava (02:02): just got frankie to the omnic clinic. he’s fine, just a little frazzled from the EMP. he’s scratched and dented but overall fine. i heard some older models didn’t recover from their battery dying... Youssef went home with his mate, but he sends his best regards. his mom was blowing up his phone, shoulda heard her voice when he finally answered, lol…... where are you? are you okay?**

**Ava (2:24): just checked the death count. they aren’t releasing names yet but i don’t think you were in it, and we aren’t next of kin so we can’t go to the morgue to check. you cant be dead!! youre too stubborn of a little wanky emo bastard.**

**Ava (2:43): hanzo, come on**

**Ava (3:00): i hate you. the moment frankie is ready to go i’m coming over**

 

As Hanzo was reading the messages, a new one arrived. 

 

**Ava (5:48): frankie isn’t ready for travel but i am, so this is your last chance to answer before i bust down your shite door!!**

 

**Hanzo (5:49): Do not bust down my ‘shite’ door. I am fine. I was simply caught up getting Javier and I out of the way and then I got distracted by… everything.**

 

**Ava (5:51): it was a distracting time! i am glad you are okay, handzy-wandzy**

 

**Hanzo (5:51): I hate everything you say. No, I was just caught up treating our injuries and then I fell asleep.**

 

**Ava (5:53): injuries??**

 

**Hanzo (5:53): Scrapes and bruises, is all. We fell a few times running.**

 

**Ava (5:54): oh good. well, frankie’s up, but i’ll defo hit you up later. stay close, ok?**

 

Hanzo put his phone in his pocket and turned his attention to his tea. He took the teapot off just before the steam made he teapot scream and made himself a cup. Despite the steaming temperature, he drank it as quickly as possible and crept back towards his bedroom. The bedroom light was on and Genji was sleeping upright, like he tried to stay up waiting but didn’t quite make it; so Hanzo turned off the light, laid him down, and contented himself with the floor for that day. He would just steal a pillow from his own bed. Within minutes of laying down, he was out like a light.

 

Only to be woken two hours later.

 

Hanzo’s phone began to ring again. Woken from a strange dream where he moved like a slug, slipped it out of his pocket to ignore whatever call it was, be it Ava or Youssef, but instead it was an encrypted number. This could only be one person; thus he let it ring. And call again. While he sat up, fussed with his bedhead, and kicked the bed to wake up Genji.  Genji refused.

 

He pressed the answer button on the fourth call, counted to four, and then immediately hung up as practiced. Then he took out his work tablet from the drawer he stored it in and placed it face up on his desk. Immediately it began to project a screen video of Winston, pressed so close to the camera that Hanzo could see up his nostril.  _ Augh _ .

 

“ _ Hanzo? _ ” Winston said. “ _ Where is the rest of the team?” _

 

Hanzo rubbed his eyes. “Asleep in the living room.”

 

“ _ Ah. Good, no one seems to be injured. I got a call last night confirming that you were all safe and you would debrief tomorrow, and I hope it isn’t too early.”  _ It was. _ “Can you wake the others? We all need to talk. _ ” His voice was tinny and compressed through the airwaves.  With a groan, Hanzo did just that. He migrated everyone to the living room and sat it on the coffee table.

 

“Winston! I am glad to see you,” Mei greeted. “Last night was scary, but I am grateful we all got out alive.”

 

“ _ I am glad to hear that as well, Mei. Was your first field mission not what you expected _ ?”

 

Hanzo doubletook at Mei. Her  _ first _ ? He instantly felt worse about everything.

 

“There was hardly any action! Hanzo evacuated Genji and I right after the--,” Hanzo waved her off to dismiss her. “I have not debriefed yet, Miss Mei-Ling.” She stopped where she would but grinned at Hanzo as she waited. Her story would come after, he was sure.

 

“ _ Ah, yes, that is what I called for. Hanzo, debrief _ .” And Hanzo did. He relayed the events of the night at a steady, practiced pace with as much detail he could remember. It hurt to remember the deaths he witnessed but he knew it had to be done.

 

After he finished, Winston sat back in his chair and held his chin. Idly he unscrewed a jar of peanut butter with his feet as he turned over the information.

 

“ _ I see _ ,” he said. “ _ And the media reaction?” _

 

Hanzo shrugs noncommittally. “There is no singular casualty count and they are not counting downed omnics. Currently it is being blamed on an omnic extremist group that surfaced after Tekharta Mondatta’s assassination.”

 

“ _ And you do not believe that _ .”

 

“Perhaps there was a relation but I can say with absolute certainty that this was Talon first and foremost.”

 

McCree leaned forward, elbow on knee, to add his two cents. “It was textbook Bblackwatch. They had integrated with local authority ‘n corralled us in. Considerin’ what I found from the Houston train, I ain’t got a doubt in my mind that whatever is left ‘a Blackwatch is now Talon.” He tilted his hat backwards. “‘An they’re killin’ innocent folks. That ain’t sittin’ right with me. Gabe ain’t’a wanted that.”

 

The mood turned solemn. Winston cleared his throat and dipped his banana in his open peanut butter. “ _ Well. Media coverage on this end is less than satisfactory, but there is not mention of you. _ ”

 

“They must have cleaned up the bodies,” Genji answered. “Before the military could come in. Otherwise it would be suspicious for people in police uniforms to be found dead with murder weapons.” Hanzo hummed in agreement. 

 

“ _ This is more than originally expected. The high-level agent that Hanzo saw _ ,” Winston nodded a head at Hanzo. “ _ What did she call herself?” _

“Une sombra,” Hanzo and McCree answered in tandem. 

 

“ _ Sombra,”  _ Winston repeated. “ _ I… I have an inkling, but I do not like it. When I am more sure I will get back to you. But regardless, this ‘Sombra’ must be high ranking if she was calling the shots and was so individually mobile. This must be big. _ ”

 

The company sat tensely. Winston rocks in his wheely chair, sucking peanut butter off his fingers as he considered. “ _ Agents currently on field will stay for now,” _ Winston says decisively after a pause. “ _ But Hanzo, I am not sure what to do with you. _ ” A sense of shame filled Hanzo like he was a pitcher. He felt all eyes on him.

 

Winston shuffles papers on his desk awkwardly, stalling for time as he gathered his thoughts. He drummed his fingers, and the sound filled the room. Again, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “ _ Hanzo,”  _ he began. Hanzo’s heart was in his throat. “ _ You have dedicated months of effort to your undercover work and your recovery. You are one of our best agents on field currently.” _

 

He paused.

 

“ _ But I am unsure about risking your cover and the place you have made there for a mission that you did not agree too. Do not get me wrong, Hanzo, you are an Overwatch agent and to risk your life is part of the job description. But I know that it is different, with you. So I want you to consider relief from this case and keep your cover while the team works independently.” _

 

The decision is made before he can even catch his breath. “No,” he says.

 

“ _ W-wha-- _ ,” 

 

“No. I do not want to be removed from the mission. My ties to this community is both important to the mission and important to me, and I refuse to stand idly by and allow a terrorist unit to gain power here. It is unacceptable. It is dishonorable.”

 

“ _ Hanzo, honor aside--- _ ,” 

 

Hanzo interrupted. “I do not care to put honor aside. Can you so easily put morals aside, or science? It is important to me. This is my choice, and I choose to stay.”

 

There is a fat, pregnant pause. Finally he relented. “ _ Then you will remain mission leader, Hanzo. Now, as for our next move---,” _

 

The meeting was interrupted by Lúcio raising his hand to interrupt.  He was staring at his phone. “Hold on guys, Evening Standard just updated.” He squinted at it. “Oh… Oh shit. Turn on the TV, turn on the TV---” There was a scramble of agents as everyone bickered over the remote. Finally Mei grabbed it, turned it on, and painstakingly pressed the buttons to change it to the news channel.

 

A middle aged woman with dark hair and tan skin looked solemnly at the camera, her voice crystal clear and sorrowful. “--And if we continue onto the Attack on the Courthouse, we have  news from the King’s Row Police Department, who took control of the investigation regarding the loaded political atmosphere. Bernard, back to you?”

 

The camera cut to a different man on the street that the shooting had occured. “Thank you, Agnes. Well, Agnes, upon investigation of the omnic bodies the King’s Row Police department discovered, altogether--,” Bernard looked down at papers in his hand. “Over a kilo of illegal substances between them.” 

 

The camera focused behind Bernard to show two faceless policemen manhandling a saggy omnic body. No lights shone from the eye sockets or the divots in his head. Dead. Lúcio let out a curse and averted his eyes, and Mei gasped aloud.  “They can’t do that!” She cried, hands over her face. “They’re-- they’re  _ dead _ !”

 

Hanzo could only look at the omnic’s darkened eyes, searching for some semblance of recognition. Genji physically turned and walked into the kitchen, unable to look. In the moments of darkened contrast, Hanzo can see McCree’s steely eyes staring forward. No light.

 

The two policemen pulled a small baggie from the omnic’s chassis. Hanzo’s phone began to buzz in his pocket.  _ Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. _

 

“Authorities have identified the substance as a strain of  _ Methamphetamine _ currently circulating in parts of Asia. Unlike __ standard  _ methamphetamine _ , however, this drug is more addictive yet easier to conceal on a drug screen. Asian authorities struggle to contain the deadly drug has been raging for almost five years. Distributors have been linked to local gangs and, most prominently, the Shimada-Gumi, which is an infamous and powerful yakuza clan located in Hanamura, Japan. We believe that this tragedy was a result of a fringe extremist omnic group who works in tandem with these criminals in order to bring chaos to our homes. This sighting of the drug, streetname RyuuKO, is the first in the United Kingdom. We remind you to remain cautious in these times.”

 

They switched from the news to the weather. The lack luster weatherwoman droned on, and the living was silent. Even Winston’s swivelled form did not tremble.

 

Mei turned off the TV.

 

_ Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. _

 

And everyone looked at Hanzo almost at once. It took him a minute to kick-start his image, so torn on both the announcement and the dead body. “Those omnics  _ did not  _ carry RyuuKO, nor did they deal,” he said defensively. 

 

“ _ How do you know?” _

 

Hanzo threw his hands in the air. “These people could barely afford basic maintenance, nevertheless drugs from the Shimada-Gumi which were deemed  _ too dangerous to circulate _ when I was oyabun. _ ”  _ Hanzo stood, paced manically in front of the TV, arms crossed tight as he thought. Where? How? They never had plans to spread West. He thought that the Shimada’s were on the last of their power. He turned around to look at the weatherwoman. Her face escaped him. She was just a collection of moving mouths and flesh, made up of cold fronts and warm fronts and air pressure. 

 

_ Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. _

 

He remembered.

 

That is the thing. 

 

He remembered sitting at his desk and leafing through digital documents detailing the creation of  _ RyuuKO _ . He remembered the chemical formula-- C 10 H 15 N 5 O 8 \-- and he remembers callously telling research and development to work on it more. His comments:  _ works too well. kill users too fast to incur financial bottom line.  _ He remembers sending that email without a single emotion running through his chest, the overwhelming weight of exhaustion and anxiety too great, and going on robotically to the next matter of business. They hadn’t launched it when he left. They hadn’t launched it the last time he bothered to look. Which was… over six years ago.

 

Fuck.

 

Hanzo dropped his arms to his side. He had nothing to say for himself.

 

“So,” Genji said. “What we do now?”

 

“Well, get our hands on RyuuKO, obviously,” McCree leaned back into his chair. “Well, I don’t know if it’s actually on th’ market or anythin’, so we might see if we can get our hands on a sample from the police department, see if there’s anythin’ specific about that. An’ maybe, I don’t know…” He spread his hands helplessly. “Shoot the bastards who did this? Ain’t no point in beatin’ around the bush.”

 

“ _ Overly simple, but more or less what we should do _ ,” Winston answered. “ _ If they really did not have anything to do with it, I can only think that it had to be planted. I just do not know how unless they have more leaks in the police department. _ ”

 

“For all we know they could all be rats! I don’t trust any of them for a second!” Lúcio banged his hands on Hanzo’s coffee table, face full of lighted rage. This is what he had faced at home. It seemed no matter how far he went, the corruption was everywhere; and Hanzo’s existence was only proof of this.

 

Pretty soon it dissolved into a frenzied argument between every agent. McCree and Genji somehow joined sides and began to tote for raid of the police department, Lúcio wanted to take to the streets and fight it over by that, and Mei and Winston were attempting to reason with the passionate group. Hanzo didn’t bother adding his two cents in. He turned away from the group and pulled his phone out of the pocket. 

 

**Unread Messages from Ava Marshall**

 

**Ava (7:14): hey**

**Ava (7:14): hey**

**Ava (7:14): hey**

**Ava (7:14): hey**

**Ava (7:15): please tell me you got eyes on the news? i cant believe this shit**

**Ava (7:16): i used to think Bernard was a snack but now i just wanna hit him**

**Ava (7:17): whats this about there being drugs???? there arent any drugs!!! listen the guy on screen was my neighbor, he fucking dogsat for a living**

**Ava (7:18): i dont know whats going on. it seems like whenever something seems like it’s going to get a little better it just gets so much worse and there’s nothing i can do about it**

**Ava (7:20): like, ive been fighting this fucked up system almost my whole life, and poor frankie has been at the ass-end of so much bullshit but none of it EVEN MATTERS!!**

**Ava (7:21): my friends will just keep dying + the government will keep lying and its…**

**Ava (7:22): i…**

**Ava (7:23): i dont know anymore.**

**Ava (7:23): 10 am sigil at the sweetened goblin. Youssef is opening to fund for the impoundment.**

**Ava (7:24): im going to go to sleep. im ready for this day to be over.**

 

Hanzo opened another window.

 

**Hanzo (7:38): Frankie.**

**Frankie (7:38): hanzo.**

**Hanzo (7:38): Is Ava well? She seems disheartened.**

**Frankie (7:39):  imean… as well as any could be. we lost some friends today, I mean. markus was our neighbor, and he was really into movement, and the way they just manhandled him like that… On TV!**

**Frankie (7:39):  ava is usually the angry one. but I’m getting there.**

**Frankie (7:40): i don’t know. this whole thing is a mess. ava is asleep right now, and I’m not sure if I’ll wake her up for the sigil. she needs a break. will you be there?**

**Hanzo (7:41): I would not miss it. Would you like me to arrive early to help?**

**Frankie (7:42): no, please get some rest. i will talk to you later.**

**Frankie (7:42): i have to clean up the glass before the sigil.**

 

Hanzo sighed and put away his phone onto his back pocket. This whole situation was a mess, and it seems the harder Hanzo tried, the faster the control slipped through his fingers. He did not know what the next move was. He hardly even remembered what the previous move had been. 

 

He sighed and raked his hand through his greasy hair. He reached the end and stopped, sagged, rubbed his sore neck. First things first. He needed to sleep. Take his medication. Maybe shower. Then he would feel better. He knew he was hardly in any kind of position to make any decisions. The dawning light cut into him like he was a dusty room which hadn’t seen the light in years and did not like it. He also messed up his sleeping schedule, which would fuck him to hell and back.

 

Hanzo yawned.

 

He was getting caught up in himself again. First things first: shower.

 

Like a mantra, he repeated that to himself as he approached the gaggle of agents. They were still, for the most part, in spirited debate about the next course of action. However Jesse had set himself apart from the crowd. Now he sat in the armchair, cigarillo held to his lips as he stared off into the middle distance. His brows made one thick angry line on his face, along with the side set of his mouth and the straightness of his nose. He was built with the same sophistication as Greek statues Hanzo’s seen in his history books. 

 

“Hanzo?”  Hanzo shook his head clear and turned to look at Jesse. He was peeking at Hanzo, cigarillo removed from his mouth. 

 

“Yes?” He answered, like he hadn’t been caught red handed staring.

 

McCree stood up from the chair and approached Hanzo. Hanzo took a few steps back simply to put some space in between them-- simply put, McCree was huge and Hanzo was beginning to anticipate and dislike the things it did to his stomach. McCree took off his hat and held it in front of him. “Hey, listen, can we talk?  Privately?” His voice lowered, quiet, made Hanzo’s stomach do flip-flops despite his best efforts to  _ stop that _ .

 

Instead of answering, Hanzo led him to his bedroom. Once he closed the door behind him, the noise from the rest of the team seemed like a distant problem. McCree looked around the room nervously before sitting on the bed. Hanzo turned to his closet to begin picking out clothes that were appropriate for a vigil. Truthfully, he was at a loss. The most sincere remembrances he had started with alcohol and ended with incense, and he wasn’t quite sure if that was appropriate here. So he paws through his meager collection of clothing quite empty-minded.

 

“Hanzo,” McCree said. Hanzo didn’t answer. 

“Hanzo.”

 

He didn’t answer.

 

“Hanzo, listen hon,  I gotta know what you are thinkin’.”

 

“No you do not.” The venom left before Hanzo could draw in his fangs. He regretted it immediately and closed his eyes to chastise himself.

 

There was a pause.

 

“Okay,” McCree answered patiently. “Well. To start from there, I’m glad we’re openin’ up with  _ sayin _ ’ stuff. Um. About the balcony.”

 

“About the balcony,” Hanzo echoed, heart thumping. He thumbed past a t-shirt that previously was pink, but accidentally dyed a diluted black when Hanzo mixed his laundry. It was hardly acceptable but it would have to do. He folded and put it aside. 

 

“Did I cross a line?”

 

“Did I?” These jeans will work. He also put them aside.

 

“Hanzo, baby, look at me.” Stubbornly, Hanzo did. Jesse did indeed suddenly look small when he was giving his best puppydog look from the bed.  “I didn’t mean to turn ya away, or upset ya, or anythin’ like that. I didn’t mean no harm at all. I jus’.. I couldn’t stand ya lookin’ like that, an’ maybe I shoulda practiced some restraint. Especially when you started yellin’-- I just ain’t ever seen ya yell before. I mean, you talk with a sorta--” He motioned outward from his chest.  “But that ain’t yellin’. So. An’ I don’t regret what I did, sweetheart, but I gotta say maybe it ain’t the time. I don’t wanna give you some short speech while you’re lookin’ for funeral clothes an’ call it satisfactory.”

 

Hanzo was rough around the edges, a little snippy, a lot venomous, had more bite and bark than most he had encountered. He tended to think negatively before positively and it took a miracle to get him to laugh. But maybe his heart really was three sizes too big, because it just began to ache the longer that Jesse looked at him like that.

 

Especially when Jesse was nice. And handsome, and talked about his childhood for what seemed like hours oblivious to Hanzo’s intent listening. And he smiled so easily and complemented Hanzo’s music. And when his hands were so warm as they slid down Hanzo’s side, and his lips so soft drifting down his neck--

 

 Wherever that thought process was going, Hanzo squashed it.

 

“I… understand,” Hanzo said slowly. “That I can be confusing, or frustrating, and I am sorry to have misled you, or misread your signals in some way, but---”

 

“You didn’t! You didn’t mislead me, or--or,” McCree stood up, a frustrated sigh leaving him. He quickly advanced on Hanzo until Hanzo was backing up into his dresser. McCree raked his big hands through his hair and placed his hands on Hanzo. “Listen I don’t want you to-- to close up, or stop talkin’ to me, or introducin’ me to your friends an’ your weird music which is mostly guitar, or stop any of that. Maybe I even want to try gettin’ you in these arms again, but I know it’s a bad time, an’ I ain’t tryin’ to take advantage of that. I mean.” His hand drifted up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind Hanzo’s ear. “I like it when you do those things.”

 

Hanzo thought about kissing Jesse, or Jesse kissing him, or putting his hands his throat again and pulling him in, or yelling at Jesse to go away and that Hanzo did not deserve it. Before Hanzo could say anything in response, Jese backed off of him. Suddenly it seemed like it never happened. “McCree,” He starts.

 

“ _ Jesse _ ,” he says. “Please call me Jesse, sugar.”

 

“Jesse,” Hanzo said carefully. He liked the way it felt in his mouth. “Please lose that look on your face and put your hat on. I cannot deal with you being so heartbreakingly sincere.” Jesse answered that with a snort and dumped his hat back onto his head.

 

“What can I say? I am jus’ a heartbreakingly sincere kinda person. Earned a pretty reward for it, even.”

 

“From who?”

 

“Who would convince ya that it’s genuine?”

 

Hanzo shakes his head in answer.  He gathers up his clothes and leaves the room, Jesse’s voice echoing behind him as he continued to tease Hanzo. Hanzo closed and locked the bathroom door behind him. He could only hear Jesse insofar as to him his protests trail off into deep titters. 

 

Hanzo tried to stop himself from smiling. It was a wasted effort.

 


	5. A Memorial

Hanzo took a quick cold shower just to revitalize himself and just turn everything over in his head. Before he moved to London, he would do no such thing. He was impatient. It was perhaps one flaw that had almost killed him more than once. And though he was no more patient than before, he felt no rush to run with what was given to him; information, time, money, supplies, trust. 

 

This wasn’t going to run away.

 

He peeks out of the shower to text some brief instructions to Genji on what he plans to do next. He will brief once he leaves the shower, but he did not want anyone to believe they were directionless in the meantime. 

 

He can feel the deaths hanging over him like a shoe, waiting to fall, but suspended by some force. It was his disbelief.  Although he had seen much death in his thirty-eight years, and in turn had grown to despise it, it was always hard to accept when someone you knew died. Friends. Neighbors. People you saw everyday. Their silhouette which he took for granted. Now it was like a great tear in a portrait; the aching absence made the picture incomplete. 

 

It’s true, what they say about the dead. You think about them. Every day. Not a moment passes without them.

 

Meditating upon this thought, and imagining the lines of candles and pictures he will see at the  _ Sweetened Goblin _ , Hanzo closes his eyes and unwillingly lets his mind drift.

 

He dreams of his father’s funeral. Jesse was there for some reason. Genji didn’t show, like he didn’t at the real funeral. When they light the incinerator, the entire building goes up in flames, including Jesse and Hanzo. They reach for each other in the last moments of life.

 

He’s startles out of his thought at a knocking on the door. He turns the water off and squeezes water out of his hair. “Hanzo?” Genji says, voice high and tight. “Are you okay?”

 

Hanzo grunts an affirmative as he towels off his body and hair. “What time is it?” He grumbles. “A little after nine,” Genji answers. Hanzo grunts another affirmative as he pulls on his jeans. Then he opens the door, still shivering. Genji hovers right outside the door, clad in a brown shirt and a fanny back and nothing else. He steps back to make room for Hanzo.

 

“Did you fall asleep in the shower?”

 

Hanzo didn’t answer.

 

“Aw, you did. Would explain these,” Genji flicks Hanzo’s nipples. “Must’ve been cold.”

 

Hanzo pushes his hands away with a grunt and attempts to move past him. Genji moves with him. “Hey, do you want us to go with you? Your text read,” Genji digs his phone out of his fanny pack. “‘Memorial at 10. Am going. Don’t bother me.’ You know, it would not kill you to say more than fifteen words at once. Sure would make the message clearer.”

 

“Memorial at 10. Am going. Don’t bother me,” Hanzo repeated. Genji’s mask somehow conveyed his unimpressed look. 

 

Hanzo met it with his own. 

 

...Genji won. He didn’t have to blink. Nevertheless Hanzo moved past him into the living room, where the rest of the company was sitting sharing the last of the Indian and marvelling at Jesse’s piercings. Jesse was posing in various silly positions while Lúcio photographed it, chanting  _ ‘beautiful dahrling, beautifu _ l’. “Jesse and I are going,” Hanzo announced, throat still a little sleep clogged. He cleared it again and tried again. The entire company stopped and looked up at him. “To the memorial at least. Jesse already has integrated into the crowd and it wouldn’t be strange to see him. But the rest of you should stay and try to find RyuuKO.” Lúcio and Genji nodded and immediately began to list of possible locations to each other. Mei was quite overwhelmed by the possibility of coming into contact with drugs. 

 

“Do I gotta dress up again, or is this fine, Hanzo?” Hanzo looked him up and down. He was wearing a simple pair of blue jeans and his button down brown shirt. And his boots.  _ His damn boots _ .

 

“Lose the boots and perhaps I will not hesitate to reintroduce you to my contacts.”

 

“They’re an American classic!” But Jesse still pulled them off his feet and began to pull on Hanzo’s older boots. One of his socks had a hole in the toe.  _ Endearing _ . 

 

“This is not America,” Hanzo deadpanned. “This is London. I do not think some of these people have even left the city, much less seen a cow.”

 

“Well, to be fair, I ain’t ever got up close an’ personal with a cow either.”

 

“Your persona is a lie.”

 

“Well! I’ll-- Remind me to explain to ya the fine points of my persona at a later date.” Jesse rose, booted and ready to roll. He idly clicked his piercings while looking longingly at his hat. The clicking made him think of his lips which made him think of Hanzo pressing him to the wall and kissing him, which made him think of pressing his leg between Jesse’s and--

 

No. Not now.

 

Hanzo stifled another yawn as he struggled into his boots as well. He shrugged on his jacket as well--  _ just in case--  _ when a thought occurred to him. “Jesse,” he said. 

 

Jesse hummed through a face full of  _ naan _ . 

 

“Can you conceal Peacekeeper on your person?”

 

In reply, Jesse lifted his shirt to reveal that Peacekeeper was already tucked snug in his belt. It was nigh imperceptible with his shirt lowered. “Sure can, boss,” he drawled, one hand covering his mouth as he chewed.  Hanzo nodded, impressed at his foresight. 

 

Hanzo kept his Stormbow in a black nondescript guitar case. He rarely carried it with him daily, as it was too bulky for the subway and his music-minded friends would ask him to play (which he definitely couldn’t even pretend to do), but he made a point of appearing with it occasionally just to establish his persona as guitar player. Truthfully Stormbow was assembled but unstringed inside with over three dozen arrows. The parts for making his arrows were in a separate bin at the top of his closet. In the case of an emergency, Hanzo could restring and begin firing arrows in less than three seconds; and he is sure of that, because he measured it.

 

As he checked and double checked the inside, he felt a forlorn ache in his side. He missed Stormbow. He missed the feel of her metal in his hands, the roughness of the string, the singing of the arrows. He missed practicing with her everyday. But in a metropolis like London, there were no safe places to practice her. London did not even have gun ranges or anything similar, and on the very narrow chance Hanzo was being observed, he didn’t want to establish himself as a combatant. So she had sat collecting dust for the majority of the months. He made a point to apologize as he inspected her string.

 

He both welcomed and rejected the opportunity to use her once again.

 

He shook such melodramatic and sentimental thoughts from his head. He tugged on a black kyudo-ji over his band shirt and jeans, for warmth and zipped up the case and threw it over his shoulder. Jesse was waiting in the foyer, shoes on and looking casual as could be with his several unfamiliar piercings. “Got it?” He asked once he saw Hanzo again. His accent was slipping into the other, something rougher and more flippant. Hanzo nodded his affirmative and moved to leave.

 

Genji stopped him with a hand on his arm. “ _ Hey,”  _ he said brusquely in Japanese. “ _ Be safe out there. Keep me updated. Promise?” _ Hanzo rolled his eyes and attempted to brush him off. Instead Genji’s grip only tightened. “ _ Please?” _

 

Hanzo nodded.

 

Genji wrapped him in a hug before he could protest. He was taller than he used to be. Hanzo never noticed that before. With a moment of hesitation, Hanzo wrapped his arms around Genji and squeezed in return. His brother affectionately bumped his helmet against Hanzo’s jaw and pulled back. “Do your best,” he said. 

“I always do. And you will be safe in return?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Draw no attention to yourself. Stay out of sight.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Do not do anything until I get back.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Stay in the apartment.”

 

“I know!”

 

“Fine.” Hanzo pulled his bag securer over his shoulder. “We are off.” 

 

After a brief discussion, the two decide to take the subway instead of walking. It is mostly quiet and awkward for the few minute commute the subway terminal. Jesse is silent and inconspicuous while Hanzo stands at the kiosk to refill his subway card. He’s dangerously low on money. He had carefully budgeted for the month, and that budget did not include the several subway trips for the rest of the team. He felt awkward asking Winston for extra funds as well. 

 

With a sigh, he loaded just enough for the pair’s trip and called it enough. The rest? He would figure it out. He might have to dip into some accounts he has stashed around, but it would be better than asking  _ Winston _ for more money. He was an adult. Maybe even older than Winston.

 

He is not sure how gorilla age works.

 

They’re nearly alone on the subway train. People chose to either not go into work or take a different way to work in review of the shooting last night. Perhaps they were even cautioned to not go, considering the ‘culprits’ were still at large. It doesn’t matter. Hanzo knows it’s safe-- or at least safer-- to walk the streets, considering he killed two of the three shooters.

 

“Do you like London?” Jesse asks.

 

The question is unexpected. Jesse is looking off into the subway window, watching the grey underwalls whizz past. They pass a number of anti-omnic messages and a slew of pro-omnic messages as well.  **Nothing but bots** , says one.  **_Omnics are beautiful_ ** **,** says another. Hanzo glances at him out of the corner of his eyes and turns back to front. The tension from the morning wasn’t quite gone, so in answer he just shrugged. “I just work here,” he answered.

 

“Helluva place to work.”

 

“I could say the same for your profession, Mr. Jesse.”

 

Jesse let out an obligatory little snort and fell quiet again, but when they whizzed past another wall that said  **reduce, reuse and recycle the bots** , he reached out and gripped Hanzo’s hand. Hanzo does not protest and entangles their fingers. They stand like for the entire commute, hands joined quietly.

 

They didn’t speak again until they were on the streets approaching the Sweetened Goblin. Hanzo was walking fast, eyes ahead, hands tight on his guitar case. There were no tourists here. Not anymore.  “So these people we’re meetin’,” Jesse said. “Anyone new?”

 

“We are not really ‘meeting people’. We are going to a… remembrance? And I just happen to know the hosts.”

 

“I see. So who are they? The blonde, right?”

 

“Ava. Her boyfriend is Frankie. They have been together for almost seven years. They would be married but,” Hanzo trails off with a huff.

 

“Omnic-human marriage ain’t legalized in th’ UK yet. Yeah, I get it.”

 

“They considered moving to Numbani just to get married and generally live without fear, but the  _ Sweetened Goblin _ was their lifetime dream. So they didn’t. So here we are.” They turned the corner. 

 

The sidewalk leading up to  _ Sweetened Goblin _ was lined with simple white candles. They were squat and featureless, and people were still placing and lighting new ones. Each candle had a picture behind it. Many were just simple Facebook pictures, professional pictures or even just blurrier pictures from the newspaper. Humans were the ones who usually had the clearer pictures; some of the Omnics, poorer and less known, were stuck with screenshots from the newsreel that ran that morning. The names were in black marker at the top right corner, and onlookers were gathering around just to place flowers, food, signs, and other dedications that were individual to the victim. A plastic baggie of dog food sat next to one picture;  Ava’s neighbor. 

Frankie was outside the shop in his usual tank top, baggy shorts and black apron. He placed a single cup of black coffee at each picture and candle, ending with the one closest to the door. Frankie stood tp straight to his imposing six feet, shook his head, and lumbered inside. Hanzo did not bother to call out to him, but instead turned his eyes to the pictures lining the sidewalk

 

Hanzo stopped at the last one. It was yards away from the pub door and absolutely flooded with items; textbooks, flowers, candles, candies, drinks, food, dolls, toys. The picture was separated from the rest of the pictures just from the volume of items. Hanzo knelt to examine the picture.

 

It was a professional photo of the black university student Hanzo watched die last night. His name was Joel Steffen. Two large bouquets of flowers sat outside his picture and a woman, crouched on the ground nearby, covered her face and sobbed openly. She was dark skinned with a buzzed head and large circular earrings; a relative? One bouquet was made up entirely of lilies and carnations, while the other was roses. 

 

A solemn looking little boy, hardly older than ten, grimaced through his tears and tacked an acceptance letter to the picture.

 

_ Freshman year _ .

 

Joel was 18. He had been a child.

 

“So much death,” Hanzo whispered, his voice on the verge of cracking. Jesse, standing behind him somberly, knelt to lay his hand on his shoulder and pet him comfortingly. Hanzo let him only for a few moments. Then, he shook his head and just continued to the entrance of the pub.

  
  


It was emptier than it had been last night, and with a more solemn mood. Ava stood near the door, gnawing at one fingernail and gaze fixated on her phone. At the sound of the door bell jingling she looked up. “Oh! Hanzo!” She stored her phone away. “I was just texting you. Oh, and, um… Javier? Was that it? Lovely to see you again, ‘pologies it’s under such… Well… Pardon my french, but such  _ shit _ circumstances.” She moved to embrace Hanzo quickly and moved onto Jesse. He seemed surprised by the tight hug but took it in stride. “Crazy world we live in, huh?” He said softly. Ava nodded tearfully, and they broke apart.

 

Ava wiped tears from her eyes and took a deep breath to compose herself. Then she said, trembling: “Well, um, Frankie’s mindin’ the bar and Youssef is there, drinking us to bankruptcy, so meet you there? M’Still waiting for someone, so… Go make sure Youssef is okay, an’ give Frankie someone half reasonable to talk to. You know how it gets.” She  reached out squeezed Hanzo’s hands. When Hanzo squeezed back, her lower jaw began to tremble.

 

Uncomfortable with the idea of seeing her cry, Hanzo let go out of her. “Of course, Ava,” Hanzo trickled off to the bar, Jesse following close behind. Youssef was indeed there, nursing a large cup of black coffee (that looked like the first of many, judging by the cups stacked nearby), and Frankie was leaned over the bar listening intently to him. Youssef broke off his rant when Hanzo approached.

 

“Hello,” he said. “Is it already ten? Am I already on?  Why didn’t anyone else get me?” He turned around to look for his bandmates in a frenzied, confused sort of way. Hanzo could practically see him vibrating.

 

“No, only around 9:40.” Hanzo slid into a stool a few stools away from him. Jesse slid next to him and promptly asked Frankie for a chai latte, nonfat with the cinnamon schnapps like he got the last time. Frankie turned around to make that as the pair of agents turned to Youssef.

 

“Did you see the news? Course you seen the news.  _ Course _ they blamed it on drugs. Always do.  Never want to admit that maybe it’s some stupid white brit with his head all twisted ‘bout human an’ what’s not human an’ his ‘duty’ or whatever.”Youssef’s leg jiggled up and down violently. He downed the rest of his black coffee in one go and turned to Frankie. “Gimme another!”

 

“Haven’t you had enough, friend? Can’t be drunk when you’re performin’,” Jesse suggested gently. He took the empty cups near Youssef and set them on the bar near Frankie.

 

“Drunk? Naw, this is just pure coffee, I don’t drink, friend. Moslem and all. And, ‘course I need more, ain’t had a wink of sleep. Played last nights set, which is exhaustin’ as well, and then there was the whole crisis, had to drag this big lug in,” Youssef stabbed a thumb at Frankie, who hummed in acknowledgement, “Off to the doctor’s with him, and then I stayed up till now cleanin’ an whatnot. Fit to kneel over!”

 

Hanzo made an unamused sound as he watched his normally put together friend slump onto the counter and whine.  “You’re shit company. The shittest. Go home, ‘Zo, watch with that fuckin’ pokerface from your living room set,” Youssef mumbled into his hands.

 

“Aw, now Hanzo ain’t really got a pokerface,” Jesse said in his defence, which he did not need. Hanzo had a great poker face and he knew it-- and Youssef was hardly saying it out of spite. 

 

“Sure he does. Look! There’s it now!” Hanzo’s face was otherwise impassive.

 

“You just ain’t got an eye for details. Says plenty with his face.” Disbelief. “ In fact, had some of the best face journeys I ever seen with him. Look, there’s it now: disbelief,” Shock. “Shock,” Really enough of this now. “Now he’s schoolin’ it into nothin’ to recover. Just gotta watch for tiny details, y’know?”

 

“Maybe I ain’t gotta pay attention to details, cuz I see bigger pictures. Consider that, big guy?”

 

Frankie returned and plunked a green tea in front of Hanzo, the chai-schnapps drink in front of Jesse, and a water in front of Youssef. Youssef complained some but nevertheless fell upon it like he was dehydrated. Hanzo watched his desperation while idly sipping his tea.

 

“I ain’t considered that, I confess,” Jesse took a delicate drink of his alcoholic beverage.  “I don’t know you that well, but Hanzo and I go way back. Know some of his dirtiest secrets.”

 

Without a pause, Youssef fired back: “I wouldn’t mind knowin’ your dirtiest secrets.”

 

There was a definite pause in the conversation. Hanzo closed his eyes in pain. Frankie let out a very automated sigh. “Do you ever quit?”Frankie asked Youssef, one arm tucked in his apron. Youssef thunked his head onto the bar. “It really came out before I could do anything, y’know. Don’t think my brightest hour is me taking a pass at someone I barely know on zero hours of sleep, buddy, okay?” He slapped the bar in frustration and stormed off to the stage. 

 

Hanzo took a sip.

 

“Sorry about that, uh. Javier? We really didn’t meet last night. My name is Frankie.” Frankie held out his hand to shake. Jesse gave it a firm jiggle. “Me and my girlfriend, Ava, run this place. Anyway, Youssef is just… upset. Won’t happen again. The tantrum, I mean, he might hit on you again.”

 

“Yeah, he hit on me last night too, but I get it. It sucks for me and I’m just visiting.”

 

“I heard. Where you from? How you know Hanzo?”

 

“I’m from Arizona, and Hanzo and I met at an old job. We both worked security at some run-down place in the States.”

 

The two tapered off into polite conversation that Hanzo only half-listened too as he finished off his tea. Youssef and his band were tuning their instruments on stage and otherwise preparing. The crowd had filled up in the meantime the closer it ticked to the beginning. A series of people stood milled outside, looking at the pictures. A group of protesters had sprung up outside the coffee place as well, most of them toting signs that said something among the lines of ‘ _ just a bag of bolts’  _ and ‘ _ built to serve’ _ . Hanzo watched them with trepidation, even as Ava stood akimbo in front of the leader and argued so forcefully that Hanzo could feel her anger.

 

“--Yeah, and so it was mostly just grunt work as we escorted people out for this-and-that or whatever,” Jesse was saying while he looked at the menu. He tapped an item.  “This looks interesting. I heard you saved up for this place, by the way.”

 

“We did! Ava and I--”

 

“Frankie.” Frankie stopped mid work and looked at Hanzo.  Hanzo motioned out the door to the protestors and Ava, and Frankie followed with a metallic creak of his neck. After a second,  the omnic’s ports let out a vat of steam so intense Hanzo felt his piercings warm. “Excuse me,” he says curtly, and he  _ thunks _ the glass he’s cleaning on the counter, rips off his apron, and heads outside. Hanzo almost goes to follow but; Frankie is a  _ very _ big boy. Produced from the factory that made bots for moving around steel beams for skyscrapers, he’s nigh indestructible through normal means. Hanzo is sure he will be fine. 

 

“He was nice,” Jesse says the moment that Frankie is out of sight. 

 

“Did you expect him to be cruel?” Hanzo replied. Jesse was finished with his latte so Hanzo stacked his cup on top of the tea cup.

 

“No. But he did not really use much body language, and when you are nearing seven feet,” Jesse trailed off. “Think he doesn’t know how to?”

 

Hanzo snorted. “Oh, he knows. He just likes to make people nervous.”

 

“I wasn’t nervous.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I wasn’t.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“I am a seasoned operative. Imma big boy too. I ain’t nervous.”

 

“I believe you.”

 

Jesse seemed eager to continue to prove how  _ unnervous _ he was, but they were interrupted by sounds from the stage. Youssef was now in front of a mic speaking to the crowd.

“Hey guys,” He said. The crowd made screamed quietly in response

 

“So, it’s time to start, though Ava and Frankie are nowhere to be seen,” Youssef checked his watch and clicked his tongue. “Oh well. We’re friends, it’s fine to start without ‘em. But I want you all to know you weren’t charged entrance today because, um, it’s kind of a remembrance, and I want you to donate any pocket change to us so we can help pay for the burials and impoundments and whatnot for the victims.” Youssef kicked a bucket at his feet that was labelled ‘donations’. It ran dully. “Don’t worry about it gettin’ tossed around, or anythin’, because we got it nailed down, but it would mean a lot if you blokes could donate a couple credits.” He stepped back from the bucket. His fingers slid up his guitar’s neck, as if he was going to say something, but he stopped and leaned back into the mic. “And--and if you’re here, you probably know that all the stuff the media is sayin is a crock of shit, right!” He cast his eyes around the crowd.  “Right. Keep your eyes open out there, it ain’t over, okay? We gotta keep fightin’.” Like a fire extinguished, his shoulders slumped.

“Well, um, I’ll start, but keep in mind that I didn’t make anything for a funeral and we’re all tired as shit, but it’s important, so we did it. Don’t look too deeply into the lyrics, okay, we’re just all doin’ our best on this bitch of an Earth.”

 

“Will you get on it with?” His lead guitar said grumpily.

 

“Fine! Grumpy.”

 

Youssef took a deep breath.

 

##  Oh, In pine point, where I was born

##  The roads are all overgrown 

##  and no one lived  there for years

##  The town was never the same

##  The mine was closed in ‘68

##  And everyone disappeared

##  In pine point, ‘66, my older brother died when were kids!

 

The song continued on as Hanzo turned his attention away from it. It was good, but the mourning air fell thick over it. It didn’t feel the same anymore in a way that was hard to explain. Beforehand when Hanzo listened to the song, he felt the sadness distantly, thought of the home he abandoned. Now all he could think of was the bodies abandoned on the street, the candles blowing in the winter wind, the black coffee sitting nearby.

Hanzo turned to look at Jesse, to see if he was listening to the song, but he wasn’t. His eyes were lingering outside, where Ava and Frankie were dealing with the protestors. Whatever matter they were trying to deal with was not getting resolved; if anything it only worsened. Previously the protestors stayed a healthy fifteen feet away, or at least made a point to not block the door, but since Frankie had went outside they had advanced. The crowd now was pressed almost on the wall-to-wall windows of the  _ Goblin.  _ Ava and Frankie were nearly pressed flush with the glass, crowded edge to edge with angry faces. 

 

“Hey, Hanzo,” Jesse said out of the corner of his mouth. Hanzo was already up and out of his chair, leaving the throng of band-goers and mourners without a sound. Jesse was probably following him tightly behind. 

 

The doors opened to a humid morning, blanketed by the distance sound of traffic and the more prominent sounds of the protestors. The squabble mixed into a din of voices yelling, more human that automated. Ava and Frankie seemed frantic.

 

Hanzo harshly shouldered past some middle-aged man with a sign that said  _ built to serve _ and attempted to make his way through them. “Frankie! Ava!” he called. Ava, like she had heard her name, began searching through the crowd. Frankie was keeping a man at arms length and saying, “ _ Sir, this is private property!” _

 

“Ava!” He tried again. But the crowd was vast and unyielding, and Hanzo only saw himself pushed around more. By now Hanzo could see that the crowd inside had taken notice, and the band had stopped playing. Youssef was striding towards the door, dingy electric guitar in one hand as he yelled something at the glass. The situation wasn’t getting better, by contrast it was only getting worse. 

 

Hanzo tried again to call for Ava, but she didn’t hear. Youssef burst out the door to confront the uvulating mass that was the angry crowd. “What are you fucks doing?” He yelled, voice high and tight with tension. “This is a  _ memorial!” _

 

When the protester closest to him didn’t give him a satisfactory answer, he pulls his guitar over his shoulder and hit them, straight on the back. 

 

The man staggered into the crowd, which held him with a certain amount of buoyant rage as they surged back against him. Another man hit Youssef straight in the jaw, and Youssef staggered to the side. From behind him his drummer came out all rage and muscle and tackled that guy. The crowd dissolved into absolute chaos, all punching and screaming. Soon it was hard to hell who was who when it was in such a state of craziness. 

 

Protesters even pushed onto Ava and Frankie, who had been cowering against a wall. Frankie pulled Ava close to him and tucked them both against the glass, his large body almost completely covering her. The anti-omnic protestors raged and pounded on his steel exoskeleton to little success. The blood from their split knuckles smeared all over Frankie’s white undershirt and apron. 

 

Someone shoved Hanzo into the glass hard enough for the breath to leave him. The person in question was a middle aged woman who looked like she had three kids all in some sort of sports league.  While Hanzo recovered, dazed and confused, she spit at him a variety of terms he only had the vaguest understanding of.  _ Species-traitor _ was one of them, which was a common slur for humans who sympathized with the Omnic movement. The rest Hanzo was pretty sure were just racial slurs. 

 

Unconcerned with the civilian woman, Hanzo cast his head around to look for anyone else. Youssef and the band had disappeared, along with the rest of the coffeehouse crowd. Even Jesse was gone, blended in with the crowd. The woman advanced, fist out clumsily as if she were to hit Hanzo. Hanzo grabbed her balled fist and twisted it. The woman let out an inhuman shriek as he strained her fragile bones. He let go just before her arm broke and left her to her agony as he parsed the crowd for someone. Anyone.

 

Hanzo passed the area where the coffee shop entrance  _ should _ be, if not for the thrones of fighting people, when a hand suddenly grabbed his wrist tight. Instinctually, Hanzo went and turned, palm out to strike at the solar plexus, when he recognized Jesse’s tanned throat. Hanzo dropped his arm and looked up.

Jesse had an awful bloody nose and bruised jaw, but otherwise fine. His own knuckles were bloodier than anything else. Jesse leaned forward so that his mouth was next to someone’s ear, and he opened his mouth to say something--

 

Until he was interrupted by two eerily familiar gunshots. Glass shattered. Someone screamed.  The crowd, so alive with anger in that moment, began to disperse frighteningly fast as they all ran from an active shooter for the second time that week. But when the street emptied, there wasn’t one parading shooter. No terrorist with a gun. Just a few downed bodies, the few protesters who hadn’t left, and Ava and Frankie crowded around a body propped up on it’s back.  A streak of blood on the what remained of the glass.

 

Hanzo recognized those shoes. 

 

Hanzo couldn’t even feel his own breath while he stumbled up to Ava and Frankie. He couldn’t hear the steps, or the retreating yells, or the words leaving Frankie’s voicebox. 

 

Youssef sat cradled in between them, all the light from his face gone and his eyes somewhere off in the distance. Ava fruitlessly pressed against his wound, a blossoming carmine stain on his grey t-shirt. Hanzo shouldered himself next to Ava and tried to assist in stemming the bleeding, but within seconds of pressing his hand to it, red-black blood began to seep from his fingers and leak down his hand, warm and sticky. Desperate, Hanzo looked up in his friends face.

 

Youssef wasn’t looking at him, but through him. Like a familiar nightmare, Hanzo could watch the awareness fading from his eyes. He mumbled something, some combination of softness and familiarity, and then it seemed like it was over. Ava’s voice was a lot like the sound after a bomb; present, loud, but indecipherable. A ringing. 

 

Like watching from a third person perspective, Hanzo shoved Ava out of the way and laid Youssef down and laid his ear to his bloody chest. There was nothing but the ambiguous sounds of the body shutting down; the whoosh of air, the slickness of blood in his ear. Hanzo held his hands over his chest and began to push down in a way that was wholly unfamiliar. When had Hanzo ever tried to save a life before? 

 

Fifteen compressions. The ribs might break but that is acceptable. Check for pulse. If nothing, continue with ventilations. Pause. Fifteen more compressions. Plug the nose, tilt the chin up, and breath into him.

 

Hanzo’s only done this once before. He wasn’t sure if he was doing it right. He just had to do something. Anything.

 

Numbly, he repeated the process until all outside stimulus left. Youssef still wasn’t moving. There was no sudden, cinematic revival or deep gasp. Just silence as Hanzo counted in a whispered breath. His hands were slick and warm, blooded and useless, and whenever he pressed down on his chest more blood oozed out.

 

“Hanzo!” The voice sounded miles away. “Hanzo!” Someone dragged Hanzo up and away from the body by his armpits. “Hanzo, he’s gone,” Jesse said in his ear. 

 

“He’s gone.”

 

Just like that. 

 

All the fight left Hanzo’s body. He just laid limp in Jesse’s arms. Warm, sticky blood covered his hands and arms and under his nails. Even on his face from when he pressed his ear against Youssef’s chest. It was like crawling sensation as he beat off the panic, reminding himself that it was not his fault, that this was not Genji’s blood,  but the panic rose insistently with his heart beat. Hanzo’s legs gave up from underneath him and it was only Jesse’s grip that kept him standing at all. 

 

Nothing. There was nothing he could do for his friend.

 

Jesse didn’t let him go; instead he pulled him closer and hugged him from behind, prosthetic arm crossed over flesh one and his head buried in Hanzo’s shoulder. The bustle of the few brave souls who stayed had stilled. More than two people were on their phones, telepads pressed close to their ear as they quietly gave details. Ava held Youssef close and cried openly, her front smock smeared with blood and coffee and dirt to the point where it all blended together in one wet, dirty mess. Frankie held onto her like he would break if he let go. 

 

“No,” Hanzo cried, low and hoarse, teary eyes locked on Youssef’s wide, unseeing eyes. “ _ No _ . Not again. I cannot do it again.”

 

“M’sorry,” Jesse said in his shoulder. “M’sorry, I know it hurts, but stay with me here. C’mon, sweetheart, m’right here,” it was only then Hanzo saw how much his hand trembled. With much effort and timed breathing he was able to stop the trembling, but not the silent salty tears that wouldn’t stop dropping off his face. 

 

Sirens wailed in the distance. 

 

“Let me go,” Hanzo said--begged. Jesse’s grip didn’t loosen. “Please.”

 

He did.

 

Hanzo crawled on his knees the few feet over to Youssef’s body. Ava fussed over him, sobbing quietly, fixing his hair and holding his hand as if he was still alive next to them. Hanzo took the hand on his side and laid it on his stomach, and then with a turning gut he closed his eyes. “He said something,” he mumbled tearfully. “He said something before he…” He trailed off.

 

“Hadassah,” Frankie answered. His eyes had no tear ducts and his voice no vocal cords, but it trembled all the same. 

 

The three friends fell silent. It was his mother’s name. 

 

Frankie stood, agitated, and faced the wall as he kneaded the area where the bridge of his nose would have sat. The sirens which had been so distant before became a reality as the police cruisers and ambulances  _ skkrtt _ onto the street. Jesse stood back a good distance, as if he had been a bystander rather than involved, and let them do their work. Two paramedics rushed out with a trolley. It was useless.

 

Youssef was dead.

 

Jesse made a noise, a noise that while Hanzo wasn’t familiar with but could recognize, and he turned to watch the two officers leave their cruiser with guns out. Trained on someone.

 

Trained on him.

 

Hanzo tried and failed to stand, his legs still wobbly and weak, a question on the edge of his lips. But it was too little, too late. The police officers took the opportunity to grab him by the collar and slam him face first into the ground. His cheek scraped hard against the road. “What?” He exclaimed. He blearily opened his eyes and tried to turn, but they pinned his arms behind his back and cuffed him with electromagnetic cuffs.

 

“What are you doing? _ ” _ Ava screeched, surging towards Hanzo. But another officer hauled her away from Youssef’s body, and she let out a scream like a wounded animal. The officer held her in place despite her struggling. Frankie rushed in but the other officer turned and swung a baton square into his faceplate with a sickening crunch. “ _ Frankie! _ ” Ava sobbed.

 

Hanzo rolled onto his back and twisted to get himself up. He stumbled on unsure feet, struggling with the cuffs. If he could get out of them  _ once _ he could get out of them again, but before he could even go about breaking his tendon his arresting officer kicked out his knee from behind. Hanzo fell back down with a cry, hissing from the pain of an armored boot kicking his prosthetic. He lost his balance and hit the blacktop hard.

 

Then the officer stomped on the connection port of his right leg. Hanzo let out an agonized scream. 

 

“Thing’s a prosthetic!” The officer hooted, overjoyed, and stomped his leg again. Hanzo could do little but scream as he pulverized the sensitive, scarred area.  Whatever feeling there was in his prosthetic began to fade as the officer irreparably damaged his nano-nervous ports. The officer stomped, and stomped, until the prosthetic was numb and his stub was bleeding. Hanzo could only move his ankle in big, clanky movements, all of his fine motor movement gone. The officer once hauled him up again, this time by the cuffs. Hanzo was forced to put weight on his dead foot with a cry. “What are you  _ doing _ ?” He spit, fight not completely gone. He threw his weight against the officer, but all that succeeded in was the officer using his weight against him to turn and fling him into the body of the car. There was a horrifying crack, and blood began to drip down his chin.

 

“Hanzo Shimada,” the second, observing officer said. Hanzo could see Ava and Frankie being hauled away from Youssef as paramedics rushed him into the vehicle. They were not cuffed, but stood cowering. Ava met Hanzo’s eyes. She looked down at him when the officer said  _ Shimada _ . “You are under arrest for drug trafficking, trafficking of illegal firearms over international borders, trafficking of illegal substances over international borders, international extortion, murder in the 2nd degree, murder in the first degree, drug use, fratricide, insurance fraud, capital fraud, and the most recent charges: drug trafficking, the introduction of illegal substance RyuuKO, and the mass shooting on this here street. Back to the other charges...” The secondary officer ruffled a few more pages and let out a cruel laugh. “ _ Really? _ Just throw him in, Rudie, he’s gonna rot in prison.”

 

His arresting officer-- Rudie?--- threw open the back door of the vehicle and threw Hanzo in. He slammed the door and locked it, and then pressed the button on his key to start the automated drive.

 

Hanzo scrambled up to look through the window of the car. All he could see were Ava and Frankie’s shocked gaze and the bloodstain where Youssef used to be.

 

Jesse was nowhere to be seen.

 


	6. A Reunion With Prison

Hanzo was intimately familiar with the jailing process. 

 

He had not been arrested before (good Yakuza do not get arrested), but Genji had been enough times (repeat:  _ good yakuza _ do not get arrested) and he had enough plants in the Hanamura prison system to have a vague idea of how it worked. Prison in Hanamura was very strict, mostly due to the high volume of violent offenders. They were not allowed to have personal possessions and were not allowed to stay in the same cell with a prisoner of the same gang. You had to have permission to speak, or make eye contact with the wardens, and often they spent their time doing menial tasks meant to numb the brain. Solitary confinement was a common punishment and used like it was going out of style. 

 

Genji was of course treated much differently. The Shimada clan had bought out the Hanamura police and never feared prosecution for their crimes. Genji would be picked up for his crime, be that public intoxication, possession of illegal substances or getting involved in a fight.  But he was not even in a prison cell by the time Hanzo found time to bail him out; he would be in the office of the CO, yakking it up with the corrupt and drinking himself into a cross-faded stupor, or sobering in the infirmary. Being rich and being dangerous did them well, and they never feared ill treatment or incarceration.

 

Prison in King’s Row was nothing like that. 

 

Hanzo was not processed. No mugshot, no fingerprint, and no opportunity to call for legal representation or even talk to the prosecution. He was hardly even spoken too. The officers ignored him as he bled freely in their backseat. Whenever he attempted to speak to them he was ignored. So instead he did his best to block out the throbbing of his leg and his face; instead he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain permeated his body.

 

They didn’t change Hanzo’s clothes or even offer him medical treatment when he arrived. One officer opened the door and the other dragged him out by the scruff of the neck, careful to keep his arms behind his back. Cameras flashed as he was hauled through the front door of the jailing building. Hanzo peeked through his hair to see a half-dozen reporters gathered around the entrance, camera lenses pointed at him. He lunged and growled at the camera, struggling weakly against his bonds, but all he got for his efforts was a twisted arm. The officers escorted his limping and bleeding body into the building. There were only a few cells in this precinct, they  all had their fill of people who stared out at him with gaunt eyes. Hanzo was not put in a cell with them. They took him all the way down a hallway that had large metal doors stood side by side. Each door was thick and reinforced with bolts, and had one plate-sized slit on the bottom. 

They stopped in front of the last door in the hallway. Hanzo made some half-hearted attempt to demand a lawyer, his phone call, or medical treatment, but the officer ignored him. They opened the door with a fingerprint scanner and shoved him in. 

 

The dark cell had one small blackened screen on one end, a threadbare cot, a toilet, and a sink. The walls were all solid metal and bleak; anything that could be found dangerous such as a sheet was confiscated. The blanket was connected to the dingy rubber mattress like it was a sleep roll. The sink didn’t even have a plug.

 

Solitary confinement.

 

Hanzo fell sprawling onto the hard floor, and the door slammed behind him.

 

Despite the falling of factors moving against him, Hanzo was numbed to the stress; instead he pried himself off the ground with hardly a pained whimper and wordlessly limped over to the cot and sat with a  _ pumf.  _ His legs ached and burned viciously, and it hurt to even think about putting weight on it. He dragged his injured prosthetic leg up by the pant leg onto the cot and briefly inspected it. The circular end that connected to what was left of his leg was bent out of shape, now an oval instead of a circle. The connection port, which connected directly with his bone and nervous system, was damaged in the form of bent and missing prongs, broken wires and . Blood gently oozed between the electrical sockets. There were some cuts where the misshaped prosthetic had pressed into him too hard. And Hanzo could see it begin to swell and turn an ugly, bruised color.

 

But the pain was secondary to the uselessness. Hanzo’s prosthetics were  _ one of a kind,  _ made especially for him and his individual goals. They would be nigh impossible to replace. Seeking to avoid further damage to himself or the machinery in hope some parts could be salvaged, Hanzo disconnected the inactive leg with a  _ click _ and set it by his bedside. 

 

Down a leg, down a team, Hanzo rubbed his eyes. He could feel a stress-pain headache coming on. Where he able to walk, he would pace with his thoughts. But he could not, so he was forced to turn over the situation while he sat still.

 

_ How _ was he implicated?  _ Who _ found out that he was in London? What happened to his cover? Who knew where he would be? How did the police know he was a Shimada? Why was he pinned as responsible for RyuuKO even though he had not been active within the clan in over ten years?

 

His mind kept turning back to the Talon agent who disappeared before Hanzo’s eyes. Whoever she was, she was instrumental in this. Most of the charges against him were true (with the exception of any and all charges relating to RyuuKO), but he had never been questioned for a crime. Even suspected. He had never been pulled over to act as witness to a car accident, much less anything else. The fact that all of Hanzo’s metaphorical dirty laundry was aired, at the same time there was a shooting and a protest, just outside where Hanzo first encountered the agent… Suspicious. 

 

To digress. Hanzo is in  _ jail _ . For the first time in his life. He is not going anywhere to strangle the life and information out of this  _ Sombra _ . Even if he were to discard all these questions relevant to the mission, there were ones that were more pressing yet harder to understand.

 

_ What _ was he going to do? How was he going to get out here?

 

Hanzo let out a frustrated sigh. He had a therapy appointment today as well. Normally he would be able to talk such things out with Dr. Phao, but it looked like it would be just him this time.  He calmed his own shaky nerves by falling back into an old life: he was familiar with prisons. He was familiar with getting people out of prison. He was familiar with lying to police, and denying, denying, denying, and he was familiar with pain and circumstances working against him and familiar with being alone.

 

This should have panicked him.

 

Instead it calmed him. He had confidence he would find a way out of here, though how long it took was different. But he had to rest anyway. He was down a prosthetic, stressed, and had to regain his strength and quickly if he wanted to stand a chance. 

 

He was just considering a nap when the door to his cell opened. Two guards with semiautomatics faced him as a pair of people entered. One was an officer he had not seen before, and the other was a mousy looking man of weak constitution and presence. The officer handed the mousy man a holopad and looked idly on. “Hello Mr. Shimada,” the mousy man greeted with a shy, wispy edge to his voice. Hanzo hardly had time to reply before he went on. “I’m your lawyer, Shaun Smith, and I will be representing you in court.” The man flicked through the holopad, reading off charges faster than Hanzo could process. “And considering the bulk of charges and crimes I am advising you to plead guilty and maybe offer information in return for a plea deal that would… Or don’t, you are not getting out regardless of plea. Now if you consider this while  I am gone, Ii will be pleased to speak with you the next time we meet.”

 

And he left.

 

Hanzo literally did not get a chance to say two words sideways to him. He sat in shock and watched his lawyer scurry away in awe, words literally taken out of his mouth. The guard who escorted him in looked smug. “There is your legal council, Shimada,” they said. “So you cannot complain about  _ injustice _ or such. I see your prosthetic is off. Thank you for simplifying the process for me.”

 

And then the officer went into the room and took the prosthetic that Hanzo did not have on. 

 

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” Hanzo snapped. He had half a mind to sock the fol, but the semi-automatics bid him hold his hand. “You cannot take my prosthetics from me and leave me bed bound!”

 

“Under law 78c9b, passed in 2054, individualized prosthetics are outlawed within confines of government penitentiary spaces and replaced with functional, but basic government-issued ones.” One of the guards with a gun placed a pair of prosthetics within the cell. They were dingy grey, and basic, with no detail on them except for the divots in the lower knee, ankle, and toes that allowed for movement. By standards of 2076 they were absolutely  _ ancient _ . 

 

“My connection port is damaged!” Hanzo protested. The officer yanked Hanzo’s leg up by the pants to examine the port. He pressed at it with crude fingers, and Hanzo winced away the pain “Bruised but functional,” he replied coldly. Then he reached over to Hanzo’s other leg, jammed their fingers into the latches, and ripped the prosthetic off without a word of warning

 

Hanzo let out a howl as suddenly he no longer had a leg.

 

The rule was disconnect latches (one by one), a brief pause, and a slow and steady disconnection. Otherwise the feeling was similar to a leg being ripped off, but it was clear the officer did not care about that. Hegathered Hanzo’s prosthetics under his arm and left without any further words. Hanzo was left sucking in bitter, fiery tears. 

 

The door slammed.

 

The small black panel on the wall flickered to life; it was a TV in black and white, with no sound, as was standard to European prisons. It showed only the news channel, which was currently running a very in depth personal review about his life and his crimes and how he deserved the worst punishment a free, capital country could give. In the background was Ava’s and Frankie’s  _ Sweetened Goblin _ . Frankie and Ava stood by watching the reporter spill every detail of his miserable life. Frankie’s faceplate was dented and bent from being struck in the face, and one of his forehead lights blinked dangerously; impassive. Ava looked like betrayal.

 

How he recognized that face. He’s seen it almost everywhere; on his brother, on his father, on the familiar faces of his family when he turned his bow onto them. It does not hurt any less than it did the first time. Hanzo drags his himself back onto the bed and lays on the plastic pillow cot.

 

He lays there for a long while. 

  
  
  
  


He woke up an indeterminate amount of time later. His leg throbbed with an electric shudder, and the news still ran behind him. It was now running a diagnostic on crime in London and cross-sectioning it with recent terrorist attacks. Omnic neighborhoods lied predominantly in the red areas. The news anchor, an ugly blonde woman with cruel eyes and thin lips, talked in rapid-fire venom about omnic deactivation and other forms of ‘crime control’. Hanzo tried to block it out the best of his ability, but the sound made the dull headache behind his eyelids flare.

 

Fuck.

 

When he pushed himself up from the mattress, is skin stuck to the plastic base. It made a disgusting  _ smack _ sound, and he half smelled of sweat and blood and panic. Youssef’s blood was still dried and sticky on his hands and face.

 

_ Youssef _ .

 

Hanzo held back a sigh and rubbed his eyes so hard that his headache worsened. Youssef. Ava. Frankie. And somewhere out there Jesse, who disappeared without a sound when he was arrested. And now he was here, being charged with things he arguably  _ did _ do but the timing was wrong, everything was wrong, and this was all because Hanzo just couldn’t--

 

Stop.

 

Hanzo stopped himself. He knew that if he allowed that strain of thought to continue all he would do is make himself despondent, and allowing himself to be miserable here would be a death sentence. Perhaps a death sentence would be favorable in this sentence, because then at least things would  _ stop _ but--.

 

No. Not now. 

 

As much as Hanzo despised the thought of using them, he reached out and attached the second-rate prosthetics. The damaged nerve port ached even worse if possible, and any time he attempted to move his artificial joints the movement was jerky and overwhelmingly painful. Hopefully he would not have to do anything that required fine motor movement anytime soon. 

 

Just as soon as he had attached the prosthetics and stood on shaky feet, the sliding port for food slid open and a single tray of broth, one cup of water and one buttered toast slipped through. The broth was lukewarm, the water clearly tap, and the toast not even toasted evenly, but it was better than anything Hanzo would have served his own prisoners. Throwing his shame to the wind, he fell upon it and ate it with desperate ferocity. He was sore, and bloody, and tired, and he overwhelmingly felt like he needed a break. He did not know what time it was, but the weight and headache behind his eyelids seemed to imply that he had missed a dose of his medication. So maybe this was his dinner? Or perhaps his breakfast. There was no way to tell. The news reel had not told him what hour it was.

 

The broth was under seasoned, but edible. He finished in record time and placed the tray neatly by the door and dragged himself back to the bed. What to do now? What does he do?  How will he get out?

 

Hanzo thought.

 

How will he get out? How will he get out? How will he get out?

 

Should he rely on Overwatch to bail him out? Hands on his sore prosthetic, he decided against it. He was already a huge drain on their resources, and whatever few missions they had trusted with him he failed. They were probably doing the smart thing. Their organization was three wrong moves from being unveiled in the worst way possible; they all were halfway back to Gibraltar by now, and Hanzo was left to figure this out on his own.  _ If  _ he did escape, he was on his own. And he would not return to Overwatch.

 

It would be a waste of both of their times. 

 

A sensible part told him he was wrong, and he was important, but all he could see was Jesse’s final look as Hanzo was arrested. An arrested agent was a forsaken one. He knew that.

 

He rubbed his thighs, up and down, pressing hard into stiffened muscle. Though it was meant to soothe the pain, it just made it flare up in ragged, red-hot pain towards the edge of his connection port. His leg would need a specialist when he was released (or escaped), or else he risked losing the ability to keep a prosthetic on his leg. And if that happened, his life was truly over: as an Overwatch agent, as a mercenary, as a warrior. Eventually his life would be over as well; without means to defend himself, he would easily be assassinated. 

 

Hanzo could feel his brain dragging down into a rut, and it was with considerable personal effort that was he was able to stop it. It would feel good, he supposes, just to lay down on the plastic bed and sleep. Forget about existence. Give up. But that feeling would always sit there, against the back of his mind, and he knew now that it was a matter of resisting. Resisting the urge to give in, resisting the urge to submit. Mental illness, like war, was fought by inches.

 

And thus Hanzo puts that future possibility to the side. If he must confront it, he will confront it later, but not now. Instead Hanzo looks upon his bloodstained, tacky skin and grimaces. He will feel better were he clean. 

 

He approaches the large iron door and slams the side of his fist against the side of it. He let out a yell. “I know you can see me!” He yells.  Blood flakes off onto the door. “I demand to speak to someone!”

 

When on the other side, it feels pathetic to demand care when he is so clearly at a disadvantage. Nevertheless, he goes on yelling and causing a ruckus for a general amount of time. He never receives an answer, but eventually he does hear two persons footsteps as they approach down the hall.

 

“He has received attention from an attorney and has no need of additional representation,” a voice argues, pitched high and uppity with a North London accent. 

 

“Whatever two-bit excuse you have for legal aid is not acceptable for my client,” Another voice replies. It is deeper, with a Welsh accent, and Hanzo is wholly unfamiliar with it. He has not summoned other ‘legal aid’, though whatever can be provided is better than the cheap help he was offered. Some part of the voice is familiar, but he cannot place what. “I seek to take over.”

 

“Fine, whatever. Do you wish to consult now?”

 

“Why else would I be braving this grim place, you absolutely dimwit. Has my client received a physical, their call, a meal and a shower? Their rights? I cannot expect much from the likes of you.”

 

“How dare--”

 

“Who is there?” Hanzo exclaimed, with one final slam on the door. The two voices on the other edge silenced. 

 

“Shimada, Hanzo?” The unfamiliar voice queried. 

 

“It is I!”

 

“My name is Bran Hughes, and I am your new legal counsel.” The door clicked as the police officer unlocked it. It swung open to reveal the younger, dark haired cruel officer from before and a bleach-blonde, clean-shaven men in a sharp blue suit with a turquoise bolo tie. One arm was in a blue sling.

 

But the heavy brow, the dark eyes that immediately sought out his own and drank in his battered, and dirty form like he was a dying man-- those were Jesse’s eyes.

 

Hanzo had not been forsaken. 

 

He was being rescued.

  
  


But all in a moment, McCree’s eyes left Hanzo’s and turned to the police officer. “He hasn’t showered or received medical treatment?” He snipped. The police officer opened his mouth to retort, but McCree held up a hand and silenced him. The police officer’s jaw closed with a click.

 

“We’ll be addressing that in  _ court _ , Mr.,” McCree’s eyes, narrowed into slits, drifted over the policeman’s uniform. “Mr. Davies.” Davies averted his eyes and cleared his throat.

 

“Well,” he stuttered, “Are you going too--,”

 

“Talk to my client?  Yes, on my own time, you fool. If you  _ must _ accompany us to the interrogation room, then so do, and stop attempting to cover up your horribly bruised ego with attitude.” McCree physically backed Davies up, his tongue sharp and impatient. Hanzo could hardly do it better himself. 

 

With Hughes beckoning, Hanzo was led out of his cell and down a hallway towards the intake center. McCree kept his posture straight, his shoulders back, his jaw squared. His heeled dress shoes made sharp clicking noises on the tile floor, and he cut a ruthless and colorful figure in the harsh lighting. He made small talk, mostly asking over Hanzo’s health and his treatment, and when Hanzo detailed in a level, unaffected tone, a muscle in McCree’s jaw clenched. 

 

“Officer Davies,” McCree stopped in his tracks and turned to face the officer. Davies halted and raised his eyebrows. McCree swept a surreptitious eye around before looking him square in the eye. “I wish I could say I was sorry about this,” his voice regained it’s typical southwestern drawl, and in one moment, McCree ripped his prosthetic arm out of the sling and slugged Officer Davies in the jaw. Davis comically spun before falling to the ground, unconscious. 

 

Silence.

 

“Was that  _ really _ your plan?” 

 

“Well,  _ excu~use _ me, but I was a little  _ crunched for time! _ ”

 

“There are cameras everywhere, Jesse!”

 

“Yeah, well, that’s why we gotta go!”

 

Jesse grabbed Hanzo’s hand, turned on his heel and began to sprint down the hall, almost recklessly, and Hanzo willed away the pain of his connection port and followed behind him. He stopped at a T intersection. The two differing directions looked identical, but the wall in front had a large window an arm’s length long and three feet tall. Thick iron bars filtered the light that leaked in. McCree looked desperately in both directions, and then to the window. He nodded his head surely, as if he had made some sort of decision without telling Hanzo, and then gripped the iron bars securely. With three definitive tugs he ripped the bars off the wall. White, painted brick scattered everywhere. The bars were discarded with a clang. 

 

Voice echoed down the hall from whence they came. Hanzo raced to the window, slammed onto the sill, and looked down. It was a clear three story drop.

 

Jesse observed the distance. “Can you make that, honey?” He asked.

 

Hanzo  _ could _ , under ordinary conditions, could make the jump without even thinking about it. His prosthetics were reinforced with carbon within the center which could take up to a twelve story drop. But those prosthetics were gone and damaged, and Hanzo was positive his flimsy alternates could not handle a ten foot drop much less a three story one. And, upon investigation, it seemed that his connection port had irritated to the point where what remained of his leg was red and swollen, and bleeding around the edges of the circular connection port. 

 

McCree’s eyes dropped to Hanzo’s leg. “Oh, sweetie, I wish you woulda told me earlier, that looks like it hurts like a  _ bitch _ ,” Hanzo would mention the excessive use of nicknames much later. In the meantime he covered his leg from McCree’s stare. 

 

“I am  _ fine _ ,” he hissed with another glance out the window. Could he make it? Perhaps if he rolled upon impact…

 

“You really ain’t, an’ I ain’t about to let you fuck up your legs even more,” One of the alternate hallways was a dead end and the other looped back around to the direction from where they came. This was the only feasible exit point.

 

“ _ Let me? _ I do whatever I wish, and currently I wish to get out of this place without getting  _ shot _ you absolute---,”

 

“Now there ain’t no need for meanness, and I’ll figure out something--”

 

“I am going to climb the building.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

Hanzo slid open the window and climbed onto it with some difficulty, clearly favoring one leg over another. The next building was not too far apart, and the brick would make for an excellent hold. From there he could scale to the top of that building and then make their escape, or at least travel by rooftop. Perhaps then he could avoid pursuit at least until they had a helicopter, and maybe by the time it was in air he could have taken cover. 

 

“I said, I am going to climb the building. Will you follow?” 

 

Jesse peered at the building opposite, concern wrinkling his face. “I mean--  I ain’t ever tried proper, really left this climbin’ nonsense to y’all ninjas, I ain’t exactly the skinniest---”

 

Hanzo turned to look at him, to look at the panicked light in his eyes. His metallic foot slid, just slightly, on the rim of the window. “I do not care if you  _ think _ you can. I asked if you will.”

 

“I--,” He stopped. Took a breath. “I will follow, yeah.”

 

“Good. Do not fall.”

 

And he lept. He landed against the side of the wall with a thump, and for a few terrifying feet, he slid down. His fingers scraped and scrabbled against the harsh side of wall, and he could immediately feel his skin tear and begin to bleed. But after that heart-stopping instant, he caught his grip in a chunk of missing brick.  His prosthetics offered little help and slipped off the sharp corners, and he could feel warm blood run down his leg. But his muscles knew walls well, and they guided him true as he climbed the additional story. He hauled himself over the ledge.

 

Sirens screamed in the distance, and Hanzo could hear a crowd forming below the police precinct. He risked a glance. Three news vans sat below him, camera set faithfully on him. 

 

Gunshots punctuated his arrival. Hanzo flung himself over the edge, to see the carnage, to watch someone else fall, but all he saw was Jesse climbing onto the ledge with his gun levelled behind him. He fired off another two shots, holstered his gun, and risked one glance at Hanzo, before he took a desperate jump.

 

There was a three second gap between the jump and the landing. Those three seconds felt like hours, and Hanzo felt his heart stop beating. Then Jesse’s prosthetic hand dug divots into the wall, and he was slowly but surely hauling himself up the wall, huffing and puffing with his expensive oxford’s scuffling on the wall. Hanzo waited, hung over the ledge, hand extended to help. Just as the two joined hands, police arrived at the window and fired off three potshots with a pulse pistol. Two peppered the wall, and one skimmed Jesse’s prosthetic. It deflected, but Jesse still let out a curse of alarm. 

 

Hanzo pulled Jesse up and over the edge in an explosive movement that hurt his shoulder. Jesse rolled over the ledge and fell on top of Hanzo, and the two laid sprawled there, panting. The police officers cursed, but Hanzo could hardly bring himself to care. He dug his hands into McCree’s side.

 

“Sweetheart,” Jesse gasped into Hanzo’s neck. His hands, one warm flesh and the other dusty, cold metal, came up to grasp Hanzo’s jaw.  “Sweetheart--,” he took a breath as if he was to say something else, but changed his mind and pressed his lips to Hanzo’s. He broke away just to kiss him again, and again, all quick and shallow but so grateful, so relieved. He pressed a kiss to Hanzo’s cheek and brow and eye. “You’re safe, and crazy as a bat, but  _ safe _ \--,”

 

Hanzo felt himself heat from forehead to collarbone, and with an embarrassed rumble he gently guided Jesse’s face away from him. “Later,” he said, voice a low growl. He wanted to kiss him too, to hold him close and rake his nails through his beard and listen to his ridiculous stories, but now was not the time.

 

“I know,” Jesse said ruefully. He rolled off Hanzo and climbed to his feet with a groan. “I know, baby, I know, I know, I know,” He rubbed his hands together, over his jeans, across his face. His eyes darted everywhere, to the news vans outside, to the window from whence they came, to Hanzo sprawled still on the ground with blood leaking down his prosthetic.

 

Despite their narrow escape, it was clear that it was only a matter of time before the police caught up with them. The buildings in this section of London were all similar brownstone clustered together, with alleys barely larger than one-and-a-half arms lengths. They varied in height but stayed around three-to-five stories. Most of them were older, built sometime in the late 1900s. Hanzo struggled and limped to his feet.  Now that he had a moment of rest, any extra pressure on his leg seemed excruciating. Even just leaning slightly on it made his reddened flesh bleed anew. Weight favored on one leg, the other held slightly bent, pressing the pain down and away. “We must go,” his breath came out in harsh and labored breaths.

 

“We do,” Jesse agreed somberly. Without hesitation he scooped Hanzo up, his arm between his legs, and on his other shoulder he had one arm on his front and the other on his back. The arm looped through the leg gripped at Hanzo’s hand on his chest. This way he as secure and his arms, for the most part, were free to maneuver. His steps were heavier with Hanzo secured to him thusly, but Jesse’s thighs were one of the strongest things on his body. Thunderthighs.

 

“What are you doing?” Hanzo said, too tired to be angry.

 

“What I gotta,” Jesse admitted with a determined, straight line of a mouth. And then he took off across the rooftops, jumping with a leap and landing solidly onto both feet. The sound of the crowd quickly disappeared behind them. By the time they had deployed the helicopter, Hanzo and McCree were long gone.

  
  


The hideout was a condemned apartment building on the far east side of town. The entrance was facing an empty, wet sidestreet with parallel houses with boarded up, busted up windows. The iron gate on the street was rusted closed, and the sign labelling the building inhabitable was hanging by a single thread. The team, which was effectively Genji, Lucio, Mei, Jesse and Hanzo, were in the topmost room with dingy, dusty windows. 

 

“This sucks,” Genji said, very eloquently, from his spot. He was lifting moth-eaten curtains out of the way to peer down at the street. It was as empty as it had been beforehand, with only one person hurrying to their home with their hood up and their head down. “Hanzo’s place was real cushy compared to this.”

 

“I am very sorry for being arrested and inconveniencing you so,” Hanzo replied scathingly. The room they were in had some pieces of furniture scattered here and there, mostly as a result of the previous residents moving so quickly.  Currently Hanzo was sitting on a yellow, torn up loveseat with his leg propped up onto a side table with a wobbly leg. The prison’s prosthetic had been removed and was sat next to the chair, and Hanzo’s connection port was open to the air as Lucio inspected it. Lucio was sat next to it with a small flashlight, peering into the wiring. 

 

“They really did a number on you,” Lucio said. “Looks like the port base nearly busted, and that unaligned a lot of your bionerve wiring. Hemorrhaging, soreness, maybe some broken skin…,” He let out a disapproving hum and leaned back. “Probably some delay in reaction versus impulse time. Yeah?”

 

“Yes,” Hanzo replied tersely.

 

Lucio gave a cursory look over and shrugged. “Thing’s a ticking time bomb. Either your wires are going to stop completely, or the port circulation is going to short, or your port is going to snap… I wouldn’t use a prosthetic anytime soon, dude, until you can get this to a real doctor or biomechanic.” He stood up and brushed off his knees.

 

“That is not an option,” Hanzo said just as Jesse said, “Uh-uh.” The two looked at each other and grimaced.

 

“Sweetie, I hate seein’ you in pain jus’ as much as everyone, but situations too sensitive to get y’to a doctor. An’ I know you ain’t gonna let us sit you out on this one,” Jesse trailed off and covered his mouth with his prosthetic, finger tapping against his jaw as he puzzled it out. 

 

“I am not going to ‘sit out’,” Hanzo confirmed. He dragged the prosthetic back towards him and attached it with a curse. As he tested it out he could see a clear delay between the time he willed his leg to move and the movement. Nothing extreme, just a few split seconds, but enough for it to potentially come a problem. The movement was not fluid, either, just a little short of jerky like it needed oiled. He could not perform at full capacity like this, but his prosthetics were one of a kind and still in the police station somewhere. “Genji, what happened when I was gone?”

 

Genji, who had patiently repeated the story four times by this point, tilted and head back and sighed. “After you were arrested, Jesse commed us on the return and told us what happened. We barely had gotten out before the police broke the door in and ransacked the house.” Genji lifted a backpack from his side. “We have your mission tablet,” He drew it out and handed it to Hanzo, “And what looks like a journal.” Hanzo snatched the blue hardcover out of Genji’s hand.  “Everything else we had to leave behind. I was literally climbing up the outside wall when they busted in. From there, we rendezvoused at this location and Jesse… Did not tell us he was going to do anything, actually, he just left when we weren’t looking,” Genji sent what was probably a glare under his mask at Jesse. Jesse shrugged unapologetically. “While he was gone, we commed Winston and told him. He said he already knew because it was all over international news. We were told to wait until Jesse returned before we came up with another plan for your release. Then you both showed up, at the same time, in varying degrees of health. And here we are.” Genji twirled a lazy finger around to motion to the safehouse.

 

“How did this happen?” Mei exclaimed. “It was so sudden… We did not even have a chance to investigate the… the…,”

 

“RyuuKO,” Genji supplied.

 

“That! And Hanzo, I thought you have not been in crime for ten years!”

 

Hanzo made a noise. “I have not been in  _ that crime _ for ten years,” he said slowly.

 

“Then what crime!”

 

He and Jesse, the mercenaries, looked aside awkwardly. “Anyway,” Lucio cut in, impatient. “What do we do now? Do we pull out?”

 

At the beginning of the mission, Hanzo would have been surprised by all the eyes turning to look at him for input, but now he was used to the feeling. The feeling of his judgement being trusted, of being seen as a valuable player. Despite the throbbing in his leg he felt his chest warm. 

Hanzo thumbed the power button to his tablet as he thought. Once it had lit up, he immediately got a notification banner for a live newscast that had his name in the title. With a grimace, he went against his better instincts and clicked on it. Immediately a square took up the entire screen and a reel began to play.

 

Ava was on the screen being interviewed by the anchor.  _ The Sweetened Goblin _ was in the background, and there was the general hubbub of people coming and going. Her face was pale, frantic and sleep-deprived. Frankie was nowhere to be seen.   “Of course we did not know that-- that Hanzo was a terrorist or gang leader or whatever you said he was. He was our  _ friend _ . I had his phone number! He came to our dinners. He knew Youssef and went to a lot of his concerts,” Ava turned slightly to her storefront and the camera zoomed in on a picture frame with Youssef’s smiling face that sat where he had died. The rest of the team gathered around the tablet to watch the news as well. 

 

“If I had known he would have  _ never _ , ever been welcomed here. This was supposed to be a place of peaceful protest! Not bloodshed,” Ava continued. “We gathered yesterday because our friends had died, and then more of my friends died, and then I am told my friend is the one who killed them? I cannot believe it. I hope that when we gather to remember the life of our friend Youssef Eliyahi that no one else will get hurt. That is all I want. ” The camera cut away and back to the anchor in the studio, who gave empty platitudes about the lives lost and then continued to chronicle Hanzo’s escape. A short reel was shown that had Hanzo leaping and climbing up the building, and then Jesse’s subsequent climb. More footage was shown of them in the halls, and even a close up of Jesse’s face. He did not look as recognizable with blonde hair and a naked chin, but he was identified from his prosthetic as  _ Wanted Man: Jesse McCree _ .  The reporter went on to speculate about their relationship. 

 

Hanzo, sickened, turned off the tablet. Jesse let out a groan and covered his face with his prosthetic hand. “‘Least my bounty is goin’ up for somethin’ I actually did this time,” he mumbled.

Mei gave him a reassuring pat on the back. “What a terrible situation,” she said plaintively. Lucio hummed in agreement. 

 

Hanzo placed his tablet off to the side and cupped his chin as he thought. Their cover was effectively blown; Genji, Lucio and Mei had not been discovered yet but Hanzo and Jesse had been. As part of the offensive team, they were benched as far as action went. Hanzo’s six-month long stint in undercover work was ruined too.  Ava thought he was a terrorist, and there was no recovery from that.

 

His nails pressed so hard into his hand that he felt it broke skin. Ava thought he had betrayed her.

 

_ Never again _ , he swore.  _ Never again will I betray another. _

 

Ava said that there would be another mass for Youssef. Foolhardy, considering the past history of the mass gatherings, but he supposed he could not blame her. She wanted to mourn her friend in peace. It was those who would interrupt her that were foolhardy. Whatever Talon’s goal was, it was clear they had chosen the Omnic Right’s Movement as the trigger, and by extension Ava and Frankie.

 

Not happening.

 

“Talon will move again, and soon,” Hanzo said with practiced calm. He pulled his leg off of the table and stood up with a hidden limp.  The group gathering to mourn the death of one activist would be the perfect catalyst. “Today. The mission can still be completed.” His guitar case containing Stormbow was leaned on the side of the couch, so Hanzo quickly popped it open, snatched Stormbow and his quiver and, practiced-like, tied his quiver and holster to his person.

 

“Today?” Genji echoed. “I suppose that would be a good place to attack,” his motors hummed with a whiny pitch. “But you cannot be seen,” he pointed out. “Do you want to attack from the shadows and scare off everyone, and ruin your reputation more?”

 

“I would rather that than do nothing,” he shrugged out of one sleeve of his kyudo-ji. “My reputation is already ruined.”  _ And I intend to make them pay for it. _

 

Genji shrugged. “You are the boss,” he said dismissively, as if this was not a matter of life and death and the decision was more important than ‘you are the boss’. Unlike Hanzo, Genji was combat ready by existing, so he rose to his full height. “I will commandeer us a vehicle,” he said decisively, and disappeared out of the window without a further word. Hanzo squinted at his afterimage, just so that Genji knew he was disappointed. 

 

“The rest of you,” Hanzo began to say, but when he turned to look he saw that they were already equipping themselves. Jesse was loading stuns and ammunition into his belt with practiced ease, his lips moving imperceptibly as he counted each shell, and Lucio and Mei sat side by side as they fiddled with the settings on their weapons. Mei murmured lowly about atmospheric pressure and precipitation, and a low steady drumbeat exuded from Lucio’s quieted speakers. 

 

Comforted, Hanzo turned to find Jesse looking up at him as he loaded his gun. He crept close enough that his hair brushed Hanzo’s cheek. “Sweetheart,” he said. “Y’sure? If we split, ain’t a person that can blame us. Live to fight another day.”

 

“ _ They _ will not live to fight another day,” but there was no bite in his voice, just exhaustion, and he hooked a hesitant finger in Jesse’s belt to bring him closer. Jesse let out a bone-deep sigh and pulled Hanzo into his chest. 

 

He would never admit it, but just having someone warm around him helped him relax a muscle that has been tensed for years.  “I trust your judgement, then, sweetheart,” Jesse murmured into his hair. His flesh hand came up to pet Hanzo’s hair. “You’re goin’ to do great.”

 

Lucio cleared his throat. Hanzo and Jesse burst apart, like they had been doing something wrong. Mei and Lucio were awkwardly not looking at them, either respecting their privacy or unable to deal with the fact that Hanzo had very real, tangible feelings, and to be honest, Hanzo understood both parts.

 

A horn blared from three floors below. Jesse went and poked his head out with a whistle. “Genji got us a ride!” He said with a tone that Hanzo did not like.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo did not like this.

 

Genji was driving down the narrow London streets going near 150 km h, ducking and weaving through traffic in a carefree way that almost scared the hair off of Hanzo. Genji had, somehow, procured some fancy sports car that was bright green and built for speed. He had rolled the window down, and now the wind was going into their little car so fast that Hanzo’s hair had blown out of his ponytail. He and Mei were in the backseat, holding onto the built-in handles for life. Lucio, stuck in between them, held onto Mei for dear life. 

 

Jesse and Genji took up the front seat (Jesse had called shotgun and Hanzo had not wanted to fight it, knowing how his brother drived). Genji crowed in vicious, thrill seeking joy, his smile split wide. “I love feeling the wind on my face!” He yelled as they drifted into a right turn. A cacophony of horns, sirens, and screeching tires met the turn, but Genji paid absolutely no mind as he continued. He was not looking into the rearview mirror. Hanzo knew, because he was glaring into it.

 

“How did you even  _ get this _ ?” Mei screeched as she watched the car clip a curb. 

 

“Don’t worry, I asked if they had theft insurance before I stole it!”

 

Jesse, his head out of the window and his hair a true tumbleweed, roared with laughter. 

 


	7. An Ending Satisfactory Enough

It is too obvious to arrive at the scene in a bright green sports car, so Genji stops a block away to allow Hanzo out.

 

Police had followed them for the past ten miles of London, but Genji’s past history of  _ stealing cars to race them _ perfectly coincides with his current goal of  _ stealing cars to get to the point faster _ . He slams on the break. The tires loud enough for a few distant pigeons to fly off, and Jesse and Hanzo tumble out of the car. Police sirens wail in the distance.

 

“We will back you up!” Genji says, leaning over to look at the pair through the side window. Mei scrabbles from the back seat to the passenger and quickly buckles herself in. “Allow me to just lose the police” 

 

“Do  _ not _ get arrested,” Hanzo says with a warning finger. “Do  _ not _ .”

 

“When have I ever been arrested, once?”

 

Hanzo opens his mouth to retort the  _ numerous _ times he had been arrested, but Genji cackles and speeds off in a screen of rubbered smoke. Distantly he could hear Mei’s cry of terror.

 

He was left with his mouth half-open, finger out. Cut off mid-word.

 

“Why’s he like that,” Jesse said solemnly, watching the disappearing car. Hanzo shrugged. 

 

“I have not one clue, but I abdicate all responsibility.” He turned to the building they were dropped behind. On the other side of the building is the area where  _ The Sweetened Goblin _ and the corresponding street of bloodshed was. The plan, briefly discussed over the sound of sirens, was for Hanzo to cover from above and then for Jesse to come from below. Genji would then corral from the other side and Mei and Lucio would come from the other. It was hastily put together and threadbare, but they were being pursued by police and only three minutes away from their destination, so it was enough.

 

Hanzo pointed up to the roof of the building. “I will ascend here and cover from above.” The building did not a fire escape on the side nor any other way of climbing unless approached from the inside. 

 

“Are you sure you can make it, sunshine, with your legs and all?” Jesse asked, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. Hanzo’s legs were indeed in poor shape. Lucio had given them one last run down, disconnected the replacement prosthetics, bandaged his stumps and reconnected them, but he warned that they would not take a lot of pressure and if he did anything extreme there was a chance of him ruining his ability to have a prosthetic on one leg. 

 

Hanzo had no intention of doing anything like that. He was not done fighting yet.

 

“Who said I needed my legs?” Hanzo retorted with a sly smile.  _ Sure _ , his custom prosthetics saved a lot of sweat and effort when climbing, but that was not to say he needed them. Hanzo learned to climb long before he ever had prosthetics. They  _ optimized _ his performance, not  _ created _ it.

 

Jesse’s eyes dropped to his lips. Then he flushed and looked to the side, hand scratching the back of his neck. “Don’t look at me like that,” he mumbled.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like you’re thinkin’ a’devourin’ me on the spot. It tests a man’s patience!”

 

The phrase only made Hanzo think about it  _ harder _ . “Maybe after,” he teased. “Keep your schedule open.”

 

“Is that a promise?”

 

Hanzo hummed in response, intentionally vague, and began sprinting at the wall. With a running jump, he was able to get at least ten feet higher to grab onto the wall. His legs immediately began to protest at the pressure, but Hanzo relieved that by simply losing his legs and propping them up and away from the wall, hanging on just with his hands.

 

And he climbed the wall like that.

 

It almost tore his arms out of his sockets, and it made his arms scream in a way that he could not remember, but the sweat beading down his forehead was a welcome sign of his effort. It was a reminder that Hanzo, despite all, had not  _ lost it. _

 

Jesse let out a holler from beneath him. “Hope you climb  _ me _ like that later, honey!” He hollered. Hanzo let out a loud, ugly laugh that he tried to hide, but without use of his hands it just trailed into uglier snorts.

 

Hanzo finished the final story and hauled himself onto the roof, using his legs for the last push over. He peeked over and sent Jesse a thumbs up, and his doting--boyfriend? Partner? Teammate?-- flashed a thumbs back. He withdrew Peacekeeper from his waistband and made a show of spinning the chamber and blowing off the tip. A moment later, and he began to slink into the alley that emerged on the side of The Sweetened Goblin.

 

The earpiece in Hanzo’s ear buzzed to life. “In position,” Jesse said.

 

“Affirmative,” Hanzo replied. As he scanned the roof, he noticed an entrance to the floor below. With a jolt, he realized he was on top of Ava and Frankie’s apartment, and with a simple sleight of hand he could drop in to see them.

 

He didn’t have time.

 

They thought he set Youssef up to die.

 

If he wasn’t careful, more people would die.

 

They thought he was a traitor.

 

Hanzo gritted his teeth. He was many things-- kinslayer, coward, failure, a  _ dickweed _ (thanks Genji)--- but he was not a  _ traitor _ . At least not to those who did not deserve it. “Hold your position,”  Hanzo said into his earpiece. “Wait for the rest of the party. I am going to do something very, very selfish and very, very stupid.”

 

“Wait,” Jesse replied, confusion evidence in his handsome voice. “Wait, wait, selfish and stupid?”

 

Hanzo approached the hatch. “My therapist told me it is okay to be selfish and stupid sometimes,” he answered. Then he opened it.

 

It was a simple steep step-ladder into the apartment, and Hanzo descends carefully, hands on the bannister. He was careful to keep his bow and arrows stored away. They already thought he was a threat.

 

Ava and Frankie’s apartment was a simple one-bedroom flat. Old wood flooring, identical to  _ The Sweetened Goblin _ if not less sticky, extended all through the apartment. Facing the street was their small living room with a leather couch and out-of-date flatscreen, no coffee table between it, and then it was an unblocked flow into the kitchen, which was little more than a breakfast bar, all the necessary machines, a sink and counters. Directly behind that was their small bathroom and their smaller bedroom.

 

At first glance, Hanzo didn’t see anyone in the apartment. He hummed, hands on his hips. Maybe they were downstairs?

 

Then something hit him in the back, hard. (Not that hard, actually).

 

Breath barely stopped, Hanzo whirled to face his opponent. It was not an opponent at all, but Ava,  her ash-blonde hair was wild and wet with a recent shower. She was already fully dressed in black sweatpants and one of Frankie’s shirts. And wielding a fire poker.

 

That could be problematic.

 

With an enraged roar, she made another move to bring it down on him, but with a simple movement Hanzo grabbed the fire poker in the middle and pulled it from her grip. In a show of nonviolence, he turned it over to the dull side and threw it onto the couch.

 

“Ava,” he said slowly, calmly, placatingly.

 

“You swarmy bastard!” Ava, it seemed, was not done with him yet. She punched him a few times in the stomach, good force but bad form and execution, and Hanzo barely flinched. She backed up and hissed in pain as she waved her hand. 

 

“You got fuckin’ bricks under there, you-- you worm?” She said, hurting but not less angry for it. Hanzo, as an answer, raised his shirt to show his muscular abdomen.  Ava nodded, shrugged and tilted her head, as if to say,  _ yea, shoulda expected that one _ .

 

“Worm,” Hanzo echoed, slightly amused. “Ava, I need you to listen to me.”

 

“No! Fuck off! Fuck off into a hole and die miserable and lonely, you pissbaby wanker!” 

 

Okay. Ouch, a little bit.

 

“I have attempted and was not successful,” Hanzo replied. “But listen to me---,”

 

“No! You killed my friends!”

 

“Ava--,”

 

“You ruined the peace here!”

 

“Think reasonably---,”

 

“You killed Youssef!”

 

“I would do no such thing, woman!” He snapped, baring his teeth, his temper finally getting the best of him. Ava quieted for a moment, if only in shock, and Hanzo took advantage of her momentary silence to speak his peace.

 

“I am  _ not _ responsible for what has happened here. Much of what they accused me of---,”  Leading a gang, selling illegal drugs, homicide in the first and second degree, violation of international trade laws, extortion, fraud, assault, auto theft, “--was  _ true _ , in a past life. I am no longer in that life. I have not been for nearly ten years.” He’ll explain the ex-mercenary thing later. Being a mercenary fell out of range of morals. “I--I left that life, in a story I do not have time to explain right now. But I did  _ not _ have anything to do with what happened here, what happened to Youssef, what happened to Joel Steffen--,”

 

“Then why were you there? Ain’t it too coincidental that some stupid fuckin’, what,  _ crime lord  _ or some other such dramatic nonsense, was here all along, when drugs from  _ his _ people were found on my friends bodies?” 

 

It was, and that is why it was so easy to pin it on him.

 

“I did not do that! RyuuKO was still in development when I was in power.”

 

“In po--  _ you led them _ ?”

 

This was not the direction Hanzo intended to take the conversation. “Yes, but that is not the matter.  _ Yes _ , I believe it is very coincidental, and that is probably why Talon decided to blame it on me. I was the one who killed the shooters! Why would I kill my own team?”

 

“ _ Talon---killed--- _ **_Talon??_ ** ” She was not taking this well. With a labored breath, she collapsed onto the floor. Hanzo stood awkwardly, unsure if he would be allowed to comfort her in this time. She gasped, on the edge of a panic attack, and Hanzo awkwardly shuffled on his feet.

 

“Talon is involved?” Ava whined. “How do you know that? In fact, are you not supposed to be in jail? How did you come through my  _ ceiling _ ? We ain’t even got a fire escape!”

 

“I know that because I am working against them, yes I am supposed to be in jail, unjustly might I add, and I climbed.”

 

“ _ Climbed? _ ” Ava slumped over, held her head in her hands. Deep breaths. “How are you working against them?”

 

“I am with Overwatch.”

 

A minute of silence. Then another. Ava looked at him, unimpressed. “Ah,” she said. “You must think I’m a fuckin’ fool. Think I’m stupid. Dropped outta secondary so I gotta be naive. Overwatch’s dead. Been dead.”

 

“Yes, it is,” Hanzo agreed. “A gorilla recently started a new one. Six months ago. Seven? Eight.”

 

“A gorilla?” Hanzo began to worry for Ava’s health. At this rate, she would have a heart attack.

 

“He has a PHD in astrophysics.”

 

“The gorilla is a doctor?”

 

Hanzo threw his hands in the air. “That is what I said!” 

 

Ava no longer seemed ready to kill him, so he hesitantly shuffled closer. She made no move to stop him. Feeling comforted, he sank down to his haunches so he could look Ava in the eyes while he spoke to her.  Slowly, hesitantly, aware that he did not deserve the right, Hanzo reached out and took her hands in his. “I am working with Overwatch to take down Talon. That is why I have been here the last six months, in addition to seeking my own journey with my mental health.  That,” he added, with a serious face, “Was the truth. Whenever possible, I told you the truth.” He rubbed his calloused thumb against her silk-soft hands.

 

“I am thirty-eight. My name is Hanzo. I am gay. I did come to London to get psychiatric help from Dr. Keo Phao, who is highly regarded in the medical field as a doctor that helps with chronic, severe depression, bipolar personality disorder, and post-traumatic stress disorder; all of which I have genuinely been diagnosed with. I have a brother named Genji. I prefer dogs over cats, math over history, and I still think that the time you tried to mix green tea with plum wine was disgusting.” 

 

Tears filled Ava’s tired eyes. She released Hanzo’s hand to wipe at them angrily, frustrated with the situation, frustrated with herself. “Would it be terribly  _ stupid romcom protagonist _ of me to believe you?” She said, voice unsteadily fluctuating. “Even though you just admitted you were a criminal or whatever? Is it crazy to want you to still be my friend?”

 

“Do not be ridiculous,” Hanzo answered sternly, eyebrows furrowed. He smoothed her hair down. “You are much more sensible than a romantic-comedy protagonist. Especially the straight ones.”

 

More tears escaped Ava’s eyes at that point, streaking down her face to drip off her chin. She sniffled and heaved, desperate to stop them, but it seems the more she resisted the harder she cried. Even her nose began to run. She moved like she would say something, but stopped, tried again; only a squeak came out.

 

Hanzo has never really been good with tears. He cannot even deal with his own tears ( a topic he needs to address with therapy). But, like he said to himself so many times now,  _ once _ upon a time he was a good older brother, and as a good older brother he knew what to do. He gathered Ava up and held her close to his chest, hugging her firmly and rubbing her back with long, languid strokes. He said nothing. He saw no meaning in filling empty moments like this with talk. 

 

She cried for a few moments longer, and Hanzo did not blame her for it. She has had a rough two days (it is hard to think that all of this death, all of this sadness, occured in just two days), and the fact that she had not cried before this was stupendous. But sooner than expected, her sniffles quieted and his now wet-shirt stopped soaking. “Are you done?” He asked gently, throat gravelly with the attempt at staying quiet.

 

“Yeah, think I’ve cried myself right outta tears these past days,” she admitted with a sigh. She wiped her nose on Hanzo’s kyudo-ji---amazing---, and backed up. “Why are you  _ here _ then?” She asked. Her voice cracked mid question.

 

“I told you, I was stationed--,” he started.

 

“No, I mean.  _ Here _ . In my apartment. Is somethin’ goin’ on?”

 

Oh.

 

Oh shit.

 

The mission had left his mind. That would be the first time that ever happened. Just on time, his com turned on. “Sweetie pie, sunshine, my handsome little devil, _ where th’fuck are ya _ ?” Jesse said in his ear, his exasperation leaking through his deliberately honeyed tone. Hanzo pressed his finger to his receiver. “I was--,”

 

“Bein’ selfish an’ stupid, yeah, I got that, but the crowd outside is gatherin’. You better get that ass in action before I’m forced to move in without ya,” Jesse interrupted. “Genji’s radio’d and said we’d better jump in without ‘em, they’re havin’ to hike back a little distance.”

 

“Said so casually, as if this was a movie or a dinner he was late too. I am intervening.”

 

“I know. Little bastard.” Jesse’s radio feed cut off.

 

Hanzo turned back to face Ava. “I have to go,” he said. “Now. We will talk again.” He stood up and slung his bow off of his back. Ava gaped in apparent fascination, even as he scuttled over to the window to observe the crowd below. It was larger than ever before and nearly took up the entire block. Most of the people had signs in front of them, demanding #JusticeForYoussef or questioning #WhyDoTheBluesSleep?, and those that didn’t held candles in their hands. There was sizable muslim population, righteous and angry, and he could recognize the face of Youssef’s mother, Hadassah, among them. Hanzo scanned the entire crowd, but in just an initial look he could not see Frankie anywhere. Hanzo hoped he was inside. He hoped he was not out there. 

 

Hanzo would try, but he could not promise that no one would die. “Where is Frankie?” He asked Ava, eyes still turned on the crowd. He began to look at every individual face. Was he wearing a hat? A hood? Did he have a sign? Before Ava could answer, he saw a familiar face. “At the bar, mindin’ it while I took a nap an’ bath,” she said, voice still croaky from tears. “Why are you--,” he held up a hand and stopped her.

 

The woman.  _ Una Sombra.  _ The shadow. She blended perfectly into the crowd, looking at home. She did not stand out even with her cybernetic implants. She was in a crowd of omnics, after all. They did not even spare her a second look. 

 

Hanzo’s anger, previously a slowly-filling volcano, exploded.  _ Her. _

 

She was not getting away from him so easily this time. Hanzo snapped the window open, put his food on the still, and pressed his finger to the comm one last time. “Eyes on target,” he growled into the receiver. “Start the operation.”

 

Genji might have told him to wait. Winston would have told him not to do so while enraged. The rest of the team would have hesitated. Ava would have told him he was too old for dramatics. But Jesse did not even reply to his order, just accepted it as it si. How well he felt his anger, his desperation. And he let him feel it, all of it, all of these emotions he did not know how to handle, and he just accepted them. He wanted Hanzo to feel all of them, because he knew that  _ feeling _ was what, unfortunately, Hanzo did best. (After all he made every stupid, regrettable, good decision in his life based on his emotions).

 

Hanzo could fall in love with a man like that.

 

Jesse shot off three rapid bullets into the air The crowd, now almost used to the panic, scattered. Sombra did not move with the rest of them, but instead looked around as if confused. 

 

Hanzo needed no more invitation. “ _ You! _ ” He roared half-rage, half-sorrow, all dragon. 

 

He notched an arrow and fired it off all in one furious movement. Only after it had fired did he realize he had aimed for the heart, all in the curvature of the arrow. It seemed he would take no hostages, as as the leader of the mission, he was allowed to do just so. Sombra looked up at his yell, but in her shock she could only step back. The arrow missed, but just barely. It tore through the loose material of her hoodie and the sheer force of the shot made her stumble to the ground. She yanked and struggled, as if attempting to get up, but the arrow was firmly in the brick, and not giving an inch.

 

That’s right.  _ Titanium-tipped, bitch _ .

 

Despite the warnings from Lucio, Hanzo took a leap from the window. At the very last moment he remembered that if he landed on both feet, he would shatter his femurs, so he rolled into the jump. Being sloppy and late, Hanzo stumbled and tripped back onto his face just shortly after he regained on his feet.

 

Sombra let out a cruel laugh.

 

It was not smart for a person who was about to get beaten within an inch of her life.

 

Hanzo stumbled to his feet. People still streamed around him, running desperately for cover they did not quite need, and they ignored him as if he did not exist. He knew why, though. The strangely dressed man who jumped from two stories up did not matter when you thought you were going to die. Hanzo descended on Sombra, and glared down at her, seething in his own choler. He could scarcely see straight, so devoured by his resentment, and it was with those anger-blurred eyes that he aimed at her. He drew back the string with such force he heard the last wooden components of Stormbow creak.

 

“Do you know with what force a titanium-tipped arrow can puncture the throat?” He hissed. Sombra ignored him to continue to uselessly struggle with the arrow. “You would be pinned to the ground, struggling uselessly, while you bleed to a slow and  _ painful _ death.” 

 

Sombra finally looked at him. For once, her eyes did not show contempt or amusement, but fear. Only when cornered does the hyena show fear?

 

Hanzo will show her fear.

 

“Listen, Shimada, Hanzo,” she pleaded, one hand up to put some distance in between them. Hanzo thought about shooting through her hand, pinning her to the ground like some martyr, shooting her in the thigh and sitting there for hours watching her bleed to death. He thought about stabbing her until she was unrecognizable and leaving her body in the dumpster (The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night/ is thinking. It’s thinking of love/). He thought about having a sword in her hand, showing her  _ fear _ , he’s thinking of dragging her bleeding and raw to Talon and telling them that there’s still more to  _ pay _ . “Hanzo, c’mon, princeling, there has to be something you want? Sombra can get you anything, Sombra  _ knows _ people,” she pleads.

 

“There is something I want,” he tells her, and her face lights up with hope. “I want you  _ dead _ .”

 

But the hope does not leave. 

 

“Hanzo!” Jesse hollers. Hanzo jerks up to look at him, and sees his gaze somewhere above him with Peacekeeper brandished. Hanzo turns to look just in type to duck. The sniper bullet misses him by seconds. 

 

Widowmaker, cruel and cold and oh-so accurate, is perched like the spider watching the fly entangle itself in the web. She does not hesitate for a second, show any sign of frustration, just turns on her hip and follows the trajectory of Hanzo’s head. She is interrupted by Jesse shooting another three quick rounds at her, which miss just so. Widowmaker lowers her rifle and dances back, expression indiscernible from the distance but the curse in French is not. Jesse curses in Spanish, tips the gun, empties the chamber, shoves another three in and fires those off as well.  Widowmaker continues to dance out of the way. 

 

“Fuckin’ long-range,” Jesse curses, and fires three more shots. Despite his best efforts, they still whizz past Widowmaker, if only by inches. It was true was Peacekeeper was effective at mid-range but not so much at long range. Again, Jesse reloads and fires all of his rounds, and somehow Widowmaker manages to avoid every single one. But he has her on the run now, and it is all her ability just to stay alive. 

 

Hanzo turns his attention back to Sombra just a second too late. She squirmed out of her hoodie, and still on the ground, takes out a machine pistol, and points it at Hanzo’s chest. She’s got the fire of someone willing to do what it takes to live, and the fire of someone who has no pride at stake. Begging for her life to killing, all in a millisecond.

 

Not today. Hanzo knocks the gun out of her hand, and it sprays in a semicircle all over the parallel shops. Glass and wood shatters, birds squawk and flee. Someone screams. 

 

Hanzo lunges to grab her collar, but she’s too quick. She’s back on her feet and sprinting away from him before he can even straighten back up, and Hanzo notches an arrow as he follows hot on her tail. 

 

Sombra is stopped by a wall of ice, a foot thick, ten feet tall, and three yards long rising in the street before her. It takes up the entire street, end to end, and Sombra has to skid to a desperate stop just to stop herself from running into it. She gasps a curse--  _ mierda _ \---, changes course on the ball of her foot--- Hanzo fires and the arrow embeds itself in the ice wall.

 

“Freeze! Don’t move!” Mei calls from the other side of the street, red and sweaty from the run up to the location. Lucio pants behind her, the entirety of him moving from the bass-boosted sound of his music. That must be how they were able to get here so fast. Mei raises her endothermic in front of her again and adds, “In the name of the law!”

 

Sombra sneers at her. Mei’s cute, round face twists up at that, and with one twitch of her hand she fires a deadly-sharp icicle at her. Sombra yelps and ducks just in time for it to shatter into nothingness against the brick behind her.

 

Hanzo pries it out of the ice and advances towards her, arrow still clasped tightly in his hand. Stuck in the corner, she has no choice but to raise her gun and face down her approaching opponents. “Kill me, then,” she demanded. “See where it would get you! Nowhere closer to Talon!”

 

“Clinging to the last remnants of your bravado will not help,  _ Sombra _ ,” Hanzo replies. “Face death with honor or die like a bastard. I will give you a choice.”

 

Sombra turns her derisive eyes on him. “Yeah, you know a lot about  _ dying _ , don’t you, Shimada?” She sneered. It only halts Hanzo for a second-- a darkened room, a broken door, a small note written in his mourning,  _ be careful, the grave is wide _ \-- but not for long. 

 

He supposed she did know a lot about him, but he was not that man anymore.

 

“Watch your mouth!” Mei called. Hanzo looked at her, surprised at her defense. “How  _ mean _ of you to pick on such a thing!” Her face was lit by a righteous, angry glow. “You need to learn your lesson, and that is why we are not killing you!”

 

“You aren’t?” Sombra said, just as Hanzo said, “We are not?”

 

“No!” Mei responded to both of them. “We are taking you in! You will reveal the Talon location, go to court and you will suffer for all the lives you ruined!”

 

_ Hm. Idealistic _ , Hanzo thought,  _ but acceptable _ .

 

That thought seemed to terrify Sombra more than anything else, and she looked around desperately for an exit. “Widow!” She cried. 

 

A grappling hook sprang from behind them to hook into the windowsill beside Sombra. Widowmaker, looking winded and sporting a bleeding arm at this point, labored for breath atop  _ The Sweetened Goblin _ . “Thank you, my lovely!” Sombra crowed, prematurely victorious. She gripped the line with one hand and waved goodbye to Mei and Hanzo. “Ciao, incels!” 

 

“Not so fast!” Genji said.

 

“What now?” Sombra exclaimed, exasperated.

 

Like green lightning, Genji streaked through the air. With one swing of his blade, he severed the grapple hook line. It fell limp in between Sombra and Widowmaker, and the two Talon agents cursed in tandem. Genji lowered his blade with practiced grace, all technique, and two great plumes of steam released from his shoulder vents, clouding the air nearby. He straightened up and examined the sundered line. “Kakugo!”

 

“Take out that sniper,” Hanzo ordered, ignoring his brother’s flippant attitude despite being so dramatically late. Genji groaned with an exaggerated roll of his neck, and turned to face Widowmaker. “You!” He said. “Do you do as well in close range?”

 

Widowmaker did not get a chance to respond before he was again like lightning, running up to building to face her. She stumbled back desperately, but it was too late. Genji’s viridescent emerged from his blade like a natural extension and made a ear-shattering roar as he came down on Widowmaker. It skimmed the meat of her thigh, and she let out a cry of pain. But like a robot, she kept moving backwards fast enough to dodge Genji’s remaining swipes. She fell backwards off the building, and with the remaining cord on her grapple, she retreated through London too quickly to follow.

 

Genji sheathed his blade. “I was hoping for a challenge,” he called to Hanzo. Hanzo turned back from the exchange to Sombra. Sombra was watching with disbelieving eyes, hand still gripped onto the cut cord even though it was limp by now. “You coward!” She yelled through the air. 

 

Then she looked at Hanzo’s Stormbow, at Mei’s Endothermic blaster and raised her hands. Her gun clattered to the ground. 

 

This was not a murder, but Hanzo took a cold satisfaction in her surrender. That would be enough.

 

For the first time in two long days, he felt himself relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so thats it! that's the end of the plot heavy stuff, though i will add another chapter later, but it's not necessarily IMPORTANT to the main theme of the thing (which, along with MCHANZO, was establishing hanzo as a changed person and dealing with Talon), and it ends on an ambiguous note that i like. i mean. ill fix the ambiguousness with the epilogue. which will be up soon. but im pretty sure Dee might kill me if i dont finish this soon so its FINISHED
> 
> if you see any errors, please ignore them. ive been running on adrenaline for the past week.
> 
> thank you so much for the read, this really was a work straight out of my heart much like No Flag, No Belly, No Cry. please comment describing everything you wish! maybe i do not reply to each one but i read each one (screenshot so many) and hold them close. comments and feedback really keep them going. 
> 
> fanart is welcomed and ENCOURAGED!! i cannot remember who but someone on tumblr drew such a fantastic image of hanzo and i found it like, months late. Please Please Please Please Send me your art. i dont care if its stick figures! i dont care if its a spongebob meme with hanzos face on it! I WILL PUT IT RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE. DON'T TEST ME.
> 
> haha sorry, wow. sorry for the ramble. thanks everyone again! thanks to the bigbang server, my owrp server, all the valid _ coping lesbians who kept me going, and ofc my lovely beta soft goblin who i would have probably died without. bye!


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